‘It’s a habit I picked up in prison,’ she said. There was a bitterness in her voice. ‘What can I do for you, Herr Fabel?’

A waiter arrived at their table before Fabel had a chance to answer. He ordered a Kännchen of tea and Menzel asked for a black coffee.

‘I wanted to ask you about your paintings,’ Fabel said, after the waiter had gone.

Menzel smiled. ‘An art-loving policeman? Or have I violated some civic ordinance relating to canvas size?’

Fabel told Menzel about the killings and how her canvases were strikingly redolent of the murder scenes. He asked her if she knew of Angelika Blüm’s death, which she did. She had read about it in the papers.

‘When was the last time you saw Frau Blüm?’

‘Not since before I was imprisoned. We used to work together on a magazine in the seventies. It was called Zeitgeist. We thought the name clever then, but it seems so predictable when you look back on it. Why do you ask? Am I a suspect because my paintings remind you of …’ Her brow furrowed as if she had realised the significance of what she had said. ‘Poor Angelika …’

‘No, Frau Menzel, you’re not a suspect,’ Fabel said, without revealing he had already had Maria check out where Menzel had been on the dates of the murders. She was still incarcerated when Ursula Kastner had been murdered and was at a gallery reception when Blüm was killed. ‘It’s just that there is a disturbing similarity between what you are painting and the death scenes. It’s probably purely coincidental, but there is a chance that the killer has seen your paintings and is emulating them. It is quite common for serial killers to “pose” their victims. In this case we might have a case of life imitating art.’

‘Or rather death imitating art.’ Menzel took another long pull on her cigarette. Fabel noticed the yellow-brown nicotine staining on her fingers. ‘How awful,’ she said.

The waiter arrived with the tea and coffee.

‘Have you received any … well, odd correspondence regarding your work? Particularly e-mails?’ Fabel asked.

Menzel shrugged. ‘Just what you’d expect. A lot of letters telling me that I should still be in prison, that I’ll burn in hell for my crimes, that it’s obscene to try to define myself as a creator of something rather than a destroyer. That sort of thing. Sentiments you probably have some sympathy with, Herr Hauptkommissar.’

Fabel ignored the bait. ‘But nothing you would describe as a strange, or even an inappropriate response to the images?’

Menzel thought for a moment. ‘No, not really. Although there was an unpleasant scene at the gallery a few weeks back. Wolfgang Eitel turned up with a full press and TV crowd in tow and started to rant about me having no right to exhibit work, calling me a murderer and a criminal and condemning my use of the colours of the national flag. Nazi swine.’