‘Any relation to Jürgen Von Berg, the city senator?’ asked Fabel.

‘Don’t know, Chef. I do know she’s kept her name and he went around for a time calling himself Norbert Von Berg Eitel. But he dropped that. The price of including his wife’s aristocratic name meant he was seen as adopting the trendy new custom of more liberal German men of combining their names with their wives’. It didn’t fit with the traditionalist image. He also had a reputation for womanising, which he has done much to play down.’

Fabel rubbed his chin. ‘Nice people.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I think it’s time we paid them a visit.’

Friday 20 June, 2.30 p.m. Neustadt, Hamburg.

The Eitel Media Group had its offices in a burnished steel and glass commercial monolith in the heart of the Neustadt’s business district. Fabel had an interest in good architecture; which meant he had no interest in this building. It was a soulless, corporate box that was finished with expensive fittings but had all the character of a hotel lobby. The uniformed commissionaire, who manned the reception desk on the ground floor, guided Fabel and his entourage to the elevators.

The first two floors of the building were occupied by the editorial offices of SCHAU MAL!, the third by TVEspresso, a weekly television guide published by the Eitel Group. The fourth floor was designated Communications Department. The floor above was devoted to the Group’s corporate and administrative offices. This was where Norbert Eitel had his suite.

A middle-aged woman with a severe expression was waiting as the lift doors opened onto a large open-plan office. Fabel guessed this was the person with whom he had crossed swords on the phone. Her face suggested that she was not used to having her authority outflanked.

‘You are here to see Herr Eitel?’

Fabel flashed his oval KriPo disk. ‘I’m Hauptkommissar Fabel.’

She examined the others with a studied and pompous disdain, which was instantly punctured by Werner’s laughter.

‘Follow me,’ she said grudgingly.

Fabel, Werner and Maria were shown to a cheerless reception bay at the far side of the office, a shore on which broke the babble of voices from the sea of desks. After ten minutes they were summoned into a glass-fronted meeting room by the stone-faced secretary.

Norbert Eitel entered the room a minute later. Jacketless, he had his shirt sleeves folded clear of his wrists and his tie had been loosened. He smiled a polite smile but his body language was one of a man with more important things to do. He held open the door for a tall, lean, aristocratic-looking older man with a crest of thick, ivory hair that had refused to retreat from its hairline of sixty years before. Fabel recognised the older man as the SS officer in the photograph, except now he had fully achieved the authoritative maturity that he had sought so hard to project as an arrogant youth. Eitel senior was followed by a man of middle height in his late thirties.