‘What I can’t understand is why.’ Fabel’s puzzlement was genuine. ‘Why did Svensson – why did you – feel the need to do what you did? What was so terrible about our society that you had to declare war on it?’

Menzel paused before answering. ‘It’s the German disease. A lack of history. A lack of a clear identity. Trying to work out who the hell we are. It’s what led us into Nazism. It’s what made us become ersatz Americans after the war: like an errant child trying to make up by imitating its parent. It was that ultra-capitalist, popcorn banality that we despised. We declared war on mediocrity –’ she gave a sardonic smile – ‘and mediocrity won.’

Fabel sat staring into his tea. He knew what his next question had to be. He already knew the answer, but he had to ask it anyway.

‘Is Svensson really dead?’

Svensson was supposed to have died during a fire-fight at the scene of an attempted assassination of the then Erste Bürgermeister of Hamburg. A police bullet had hit the fuel tank of Svensson’s car, which had burst into flames. Svensson had burned to death. The police had not been able to trace the dental records essential to establishing his identity. Svensson, the consummate terrorist, had spent years erasing his existence from official files.

Marlies Menzel didn’t answer for a moment. Instead she leaned back and drew on her cigarette, examining Fabel as if appraising him.

‘Yes, Herr Fabel. Karl-Heinz died in that car. I can assure you of that.’

Fabel believed her. ‘I’d better get back to Hamburg,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I disturbed you.’

‘Or are you simply sorry you disturbed the past? That’s where I belong: in your past. That’s where Gisela belongs as well.’ She paused. ‘Have you got what you came for, Herr Fabel?’

Fabel smiled as he stood up. ‘I don’t even know what it was I came for. I hope your exhibition goes well.’

‘An act of creation. Some kind of atonement for the acts of destruction I was involved in. A fitting end, I think. You see, Herr Fabel, it will be my debut and my finale.’ Menzel flicked some more ash into the ashtray on the table.

‘I’m sorry?’ Fabel’s face signalled confusion.

Marlies Menzel held up her cigarette and studied it carefully. ‘I have cancer, Herr Fabel.’ She smiled bitterly. ‘Terminal. That’s partly why I was released early. If you came here looking for some kind of justice, that’s about all I can offer you.’

‘I am sorry,’ answered Fabel. ‘Goodbye, Frau Menzel.’

‘Goodbye, Herr Kriminalhauptkommissar.’

Thursday 19 June, 6.00 p.m. Pöseldorf, Hamburg.

On the way back from Bremen, Fabel phoned in to the Mordkommission. He asked Maria to compile all the information she could on Wolfgang Eitel. There was nothing new to report from the Kommission, so Fabel told her he would not come in until the morning. He hung up and redialled, asking to be put through to Brauner, who told him that Schreiber’s fingerprints matched the second set found in Blüm’s apartment. For once, the presence of fingerprints exculpated rather than incriminated a suspect. If Schreiber had been the killer, he would have done everything he could to wipe all traces of his presence from the apartment. And Son of Sven had left them nothing at any other scene to go on.