‘Okay, people. We have a clear prime suspect … but, while we have enough to get the Staatsanwaltschaft state prosecutor to grant us a warrant for his arrest and questioning, we have absolutely no solid evidence to nail him with.’ Fabel turned and slapped his hand against the blown-up portrait. ‘Colonel Vasyl Vitrenko, formerly of the Ukrainian Berkut, or Golden Eagle counter-terrorist unit. Forty-five years old. And a tough and heartless son of a bitch. We have our eye-witness account, albeit after the fact, of Vitrenko having orchestrated mass murders using exactly the same modus we have seen here in Hamburg. We also have an identical series of murders in Kiev … But again this isn’t much good because we cannot tie Vitrenko conclusively to these, particularly as the Ukrainian police believe they already have the perpetrator. But what we do have is a potential motive. It would appear that at least two of our victims had some knowledge, potentially very damaging, about a vast property scam that involves our friends the Eitels and Ukrainian connections. Maria?’

Maria Klee pulled out her notes and flicked through them. She started to speak but tiredness had cast gravel in her throat and she gave a small cough before resuming.

‘I’ve spoken to the Ukrainian police in Kiev, the Berkut CT unit and the SBU secret service. Unsurprisingly, the SBU were not very forthcoming, but I did get some information from the police about the Kiev murders. They seem to think we’ve got a copycat killer, because, as Hauptkommissar Fabel has stated, they swear they got the right man for it.’ She checked her notes again. ‘A Vladimir Gera …’ Maria stumbled over the name and took another run at it. ‘Vladimir Gerassimenko. Apparently he was a bright underachiever who worked as an administrator for the railways. There were three victims. Two of whom were found to have been, well, sacrificed as part of some kind of rite. It was suspected that there were others involved in the rituals, but Gerassimenko was convicted for the third killing.’

‘The journalist?’ asked Fabel.

‘Yes. And in her own apartment.’

‘Just like Angelika Blüm.’ Fabel stated the obvious for emphasis, but his voice was dull and tired. ‘Is there any chance that we can get someone over to the Ukraine to interview this …’

‘Gerassimenko …’ Maria helped Fabel out. ‘Not likely. The Ukraine signed a moratorium on the death penalty in 1997 and abolished it in 2000 … but Gerassimenko was executed in ninety-six.’

Fabel sighed. ‘What else did you find out?’

‘Well … your guy – Vitrenko’s father – he’s no longer on active service in any arm of the Ukrainian police. I spoke with someone from the Ministry of Internal Affairs – the only one they were willing to get out of bed – and, according to him, Major Stepan Vitrenko was retired out of the Berkut years ago. I was able to squeeze out of the guy I spoke to that Vitrenko senior has made hunting down his son a bit of a one-man crusade. Apparently the Soviets sent him after Vitrenko in Afghanistan, and since that time it has become an obsession with him.’