‘When was Herr Klugmann’s most recent visit, that you know about?’

‘Last week … or maybe the week before. I’m sorry, I didn’t really pay much heed.’

‘That’s all right, Frau Steiner. Thank you for your time.’ Fabel rose from the armchair.

‘Herr Hauptkommissar?’ The watery owl eyes blinked.

‘Yes, Frau Steiner?’

‘Did she suffer terribly?’

There was no point in lying. It would soon be all over the papers. ‘I’m afraid she did. But she’s at peace now. Goodbye, Frau Steiner. If there is anything you need, please ask one of the officers.’

The words didn’t seem to have sunk in, the old woman simply sat shaking her head. ‘Tragic. So tragic.’

As they left the flat Fabel turned to Beller. ‘You said you were first on the scene?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And there was no one hanging around?’

‘No, sir. Just the guy who phoned us … and by that time the young couple from the downstairs flat.’

‘You didn’t see an older man hanging around?’

Beller shook his head thoughtfully.

‘Even later, when the ghouls began to gather? A short, thickset man in his late sixties? He looks foreign … Slavic … maybe Russian.’

‘No sir … sorry. Is it important?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Fabel. ‘Probably not.’

Wednesday 4 June, 7.30 a.m. St Pauli, Hamburg.

The interview room in the Davidwache police station was a study in efficient minimalism. The starkness of the whitewashed walls was broken only by the door and a single window which would have looked out onto Davidstrasse, had its glass not been thick and cloudy, like a sheet of frozen milk, against which the daylight that was dawning outside was reduced to a vague bloom. One end of the interview table was pushed up against the wall, and four tubular metal chairs were arranged, two on either side, at the table. A black interview-recording cassette unit sat at the end of the table. Above it, on the wall, was a notice advising of exits and procedures in case of fire. Above that a sign forbidding smoking.

Fabel and Werner sat on one side of the table. Opposite Fabel was a man of about thirty-five with thick, greasy black hair combed back in glistening strands that continually slipped over his forehead. He was tall and powerfully built, his shoulders straining against the cheap black leather of his too-tight jacket. He had the look of a former athlete gone to seed: an incipient corpulence gelling around the waistline, the eyes shadowed, the skin pale against the black hair and two-day stubble; a face still square and strong, but beginning to show signs of sagging.

‘You are Hans Klugmann?’ Fabel asked without looking up from the report.

‘Yes …’ Klugmann leaned forward, hunching his shoulders, placing his wrists on the edge of the table and picking at the skin on one thumb with the nail of the other. A pose almost like prayer, but for its nervous intensity.

‘You found the girl …’ Fabel flipped over a few pages. ‘“Monique”.’