Fabel had a reserved space in an underground parking garage along the street from his apartment. It had just turned eight when he pulled into his space. When he got out of the car he placed his hands in the small of his back and arched his spine, trying to stretch some of the stiffness and tiredness out of it. It was then that he became aware of the presence of two huge men behind him. He spun around and instinctively placed his hand on his gun. Both men smiled and held up their hands in a pacifying gesture. Each was black-haired, one with thick curls, the other with straight hair sleeked back against his scalp. Curly also sported an unfeasibly large and thick moustache. They were clearly Turkish. It was Curly who spoke.

‘Please, Herr Fabel … we want no trouble and we didn’t mean to startle you. Herr Yilmaz has sent us. He would like to talk to you. Now, if it’s convenient.’

‘And if it isn’t?’

Curly shrugged. ‘Of course, that is entirely up to you. But Herr Yilmaz told us to tell you that he has something for you that may be of importance to your investigation.’

‘Where is he?’

‘We are to take you to him …’ Curly’s smile broadened in a way that didn’t make Fabel feel any more secure – ‘if that is convenient to you.’

Fabel smiled and shook his head. ‘I’ll take my car and follow you.’

The two heavies had a Polo waiting outside and Fabel followed them as they made their way through the city. They led Fabel into the Harburg area. Fabel called the Mordkommission and told Werner that he was being taken to a meeting with an informant, but didn’t tell Werner it was Yilmaz. Werner was all for sending out a full back-up team but Fabel told him to hold off and that he would ring him back when he knew where the meeting was to take place.

The Turks’ VW pulled into a small estate of unimaginatively designed industrial and commercial buildings. They parked in front of a wide, low-rise warehouse. It had been built at some point in the seventies or eighties and the bright red paint was flaking off the exterior metal pipes that had been the only concession to the architectural fashions of the period. As the two Turks were getting out of their car, Fabel called Werner back and gave him his location.

‘Take care, Jan,’ Werner said.

‘I’ll be fine. But if I don’t check in in half an hour, send the cavalry.’

Fabel flipped his cell phone shut and got out of his BMW. Curly beamed a searchlight smile from underneath his dense moustache and held open a door which was in as much need of a paint job as the pipework. Fabel indicated that it was okay; the two Turks could precede him.

The warehouse was small but packed with crates of foodstuffs, all of which were labelled in a language that Fabel assumed to be Turkish. A partition wall, as much wire-reinforced glass window as plasterboard, ran along one side of the building: the aspect looking out onto the car park. This division separated the main warehouse from the offices. Through the glass of the main office, Fabel could see Yilmaz sitting with two men. One was a tough-looking Turk; the second was a small, dirty-looking man in a filthy military-style coat. He had the jaundiced skin tone and sunken eyes of a habitual drug user.