Werner came to an abrupt halt. There was silence in the room. A balanced, calculated silence. Klugmann slumped back in his chair, one leg sprawled, the other still doing its little nervous dance. Fabel scanned Klugmann’s face. There was the expected mask of disinterest: a studied boredom worn by countless others who had sat across the interview desk from Fabel over the years: an expression intended to convey a lack of concern, but Fabel could invariably see through it. As he regarded Klugmann, he realised that, in this case, he couldn’t penetrate the mask.

Werner continued. ‘You weren’t a friend, and you weren’t a customer … you weren’t up there for a sly four-hundred-euro fuck, were you? From what we can tell about “Monique”, she was way out of your class – and your price bracket.’

Klugmann didn’t answer and stared at the edge of the table.

‘And I don’t believe that you are simply the unfortunate landlord of an anonymous girl who just happens to be butchered in the property you rent. So where does that leave us?’ Werner persisted: ‘Not a friend. Not a customer. That leaves … well, that leaves either you slicing her up, or that you’re an enforcer for Ulugbay … that you were her pimp. I think you were up there to collect – and I mean more than the rent – and if she got out of line you’d give her a little slap. Isn’t that about the size of it?’

Silence.

‘Maybe you like your work. Maybe you get a hard-on when you knock these girls about a bit. Maybe last night was you having some special fun …’

Klugmann exploded. ‘Don’t be fuckin’ stupid … You saw the state of that room … if it hadda been me I’d be covered in blood …’

‘Maybe you took your clothes off before you had your jollies … Maybe we should have forensics give you a going over …’

‘Do what the fuck you want … Okay, so I work for Ulugbay. That’s got nothing to do with what happened up there tonight. It’s got nothing to do with him and I’m not bringing him into it. You don’t scare me like the fucking Turks scare me. You know the score … if they think I’m talking to you about them I’ll end up in the woods with my face shaved off.’

Fabel knew the custom Klugmann was referring to, a favourite with the Turkish Mafia: someone who crossed them in a drugs deal, or who gave information to the police, would be dumped in the woods to the north of Hamburg. The hands would be missing, the teeth smashed and the face sliced off. It made identification of the victim difficult, sometimes impossible, and delayed investigations to such an extent that often the trail would be too cold to secure a conviction.

‘Okay, okay … just calm down,’ Fabel said. ‘But you’ve got to see that you’re the only person that we can place in her apartment …’