‘And that’s why they’re so keen to hear if we have any kind of direct link to criminal activity here?’

‘Exactly. But there’s more. Apparently the Russian and Ukrainian Mafias don’t do much narcotics business. They’re into financial and high-tech scams. But their main activity is illegal financial transfers, setting up phoney import-export businesses to launder the proceeds of their organised criminal activity in Russia and Ukraine to and from the US, usually via European banks or investing it in property deals.’

‘Like the ones here in Hamburg.’ Fabel allowed himself a small moment of satisfaction. The pieces were coming together in one small corner of the puzzle. It might only be the Eitels, but at least there was a chance that someone was going to be nailed for their part in all of this mayhem. He stood up suddenly and decisively, snapping up the account-tracking sheet and the key that went with it. ‘Let’s go talk to our colleagues in Financial and Corporate.’

Saturday 21 June, 1.30 p.m. Polizeipräsidium, Hamburg.

Markmann looked the part: more accountant than policeman. He was a small, neat man whose otherwise immaculate blue suit seemed to seek more substantial shoulders on which to hang. He shook Fabel’s hand with an overstated firmness.

‘I’ve had a look through the account details you supplied, Herr Fabel,’ Markmann spoke with a faint lisp. ‘They certainly raise enough questions to allow us to secure a warrant for seizure of files from each of the principal companies and individuals involved. However, I don’t think we can hold either Eitel for much longer without at least beginning to discuss a specific charge. They’re beginning to pile on the pressure – or rather, their team of expensive lawyers are beginning to justify their hourly rate. Unless you’ve got something …’

Fabel smiled. ‘Only suspicion … and bluff. Let’s at least see if I can ruffle their feathers a bit. We’ll take Eitel senior first.’

The scene was what one would expect in an interview room. Four men, two on either side of the interview table. One man was standing, his arms locked and leaning on the table, looking down at his opposite number who, in turn, was defiantly trying to look uncowed by the baiting of the other. But there was something wrong with this picture. It was the police team who sat in the shadow of Wolfgang Eitel. Fabel could see that throughout the interview, the psychological balance had been slowly, skilfully and decisively tipped in Eitel’s favour. Fabel realised he had to give the scales a swift kick.

‘Sit down!’ Fabel said as he entered the room.

Eitel straightened himself up to his full and considerable height and regarded Fabel down his aquiline nose.

‘Never mind the aristocratic posturing, Eitel.’ Fabel’s voice was laced with contempt. ‘We all know you’re the son of a Bavarian peasant farmer. Turning your nose up at people is easy when you’ve spent half your childhood knee-deep in pig shit. Now sit down!’

Fabel was surprised to see that Eitel’s counsel was Waalkes, the Eitel Group head of legal affairs, whose area of expertise was presumably more commercial than criminal. The lawyer was incandescent and shot to his feet.