Erika Kessler was a producer at NDR and her husband was a partner in a production company that made television commercials. The three-level contemporary home they shared reflected their combined income and the trendy credibility of their occupations. Kessler’s husband, a small, neat, balding man in Armani slacks, a cashmere V-necked shirt and sandals that flapped noisily on the terracotta floor tiles of the atrium as he walked, led them onto a wooden decking balcony that projected out over a steep garden.

Fabel knew as soon as the view from the balcony opened out to him that it must have added half a million to the value of the house. He was aware that Werner, someone not usually sensitive to the aesthetic, was also silently absorbing the panorama. The Kessler residence was set on one of the terraces that stepped back and up from the Blankenese Strandweg. From the deck, Fabel and Werner had an uninterrupted view right across the Elbe: from the broad sands that outlined the river, over the wooded sickle of Ness-sand island nature reserve which splits the Elbe into two channels, and across to the Altes Land on the southern shore of the river. The Elbe was flecked with the white triangles of a dozen sailboats. Only a hulking, long container ship provided a reminder that the river’s primary function was not pleasure but commerce.

In the last week or so, Fabel had seen a lot of impressive real estate – Yilmaz’s mansion, MacSwain’s hip loft and Angelika Blüm’s 1920’s Modernist apartment – but none had pricked his envy. This home did: with its relaxed but elegant style, its location and its amazing view that rivalled his own apartment’s cityscape. But when he shaped a vision of himself in this home, it was with his ex-wife Renate and their daughter, Gabi. The thought was the bitter aftertaste to his envy and he found himself feeling resentful of the Kesslers. He turned his back on the view.

When Erika Kessler stepped out onto the balcony she revealed a glacial near-beauty that was let down by a jaw of nearly masculine strength. There was ice in the pale blue eyes and her head was angled in a way that suggested arrogance. The severity of her expression was mitigated by the fine ash-blonde hair that she wore loose and which framed her face in soft ringlets. She was dressed in a white cotton scoop-necked top and wide-legged white linen trousers. She gestured towards a set of solid-looking hardwood loungers and sat down. Werner and Fabel took two chairs opposite her. They had flashed their oval shields to Herr Kessler on arrival: Erika Kessler now asked if she could see their identification and studied both cards carefully, looking from photograph to face and back again in each case.

‘You wanted to ask me about Angelika?’ she asked eventually, handing back their IDs.

‘Yes,’ said Fabel. ‘I know you must be very upset about Frau Blüm’s death … and the manner of it … and I assure you we don’t want to cause you further distress, but we do need to know as much as possible about Frau Blüm in order to find her killer.’