‘It’s perfect,’ said Fabel. ‘An anonymous letter or note gives us physical evidence; we can look for DNA, carry out handwriting analysis, identify the source of the paper and the ink … but an e-mail only has an electronic presence. Forensically, it is non-existent.’

‘But I thought an anonymous e-mail was impossible,’ said Van Heiden. ‘Surely we have an IP address?’

Fabel was momentarily taken aback by Van Heiden’s knowledge of information technology. ‘That’s right. We’ve had two separate e-mails, each with a separate Internet provider and identity. We followed both up and found out that our guy has hacked into what should be an impenetrably secure network and set up fake accounts. He then sends the e-mails through these accounts.’

Fabel turned away from the window. There were six people around the cherrywood table. The four principal members of Fabel’s Mordkommission team – Werner Meyer, Maria Klee, Anna Wolff and Paul Lindemann – sat together on one side. On the other sat an attractive dark-haired woman of about thirty-five, Dr Susanne Eckhardt, the criminal psychologist. At the head of the table was Horst Van Heiden, Leitender Kriminaldirektor of the Polizei Hamburg: Fabel’s boss. Van Heiden rose from his chair, a policeman as if it were his genetic destiny; even now, in his pale grey Hugo Boss suit, he managed to convey the impression of wearing a uniform. He took the few steps across to the briefing-room wall, upon which large, colour photographs, taken from different angles, showed the devastated bodies of two young women. Blood everywhere. White bone gleaming through gore and flesh. Two different women, two different settings, but the horror at the centre of the images remained constant: their lungs lay excavated and thrown out from their bodies. Van Heiden’s eyes ranged over the horror, his face emotionless.

‘I take it you know who I have waiting for me – for us – upstairs, Fabel?’

‘Yes, Herr Kriminaldirektor. I do.’

‘And you know he’s been giving me hell to put an end to … to this.’

‘I am well aware of the political pressures upon you, sir. But my main concern is to prevent some other poor woman falling victim to this animal.’

Van Heiden’s small blue eyes glittered coldly. ‘My priorities, Herr Kriminalhauptkommissar, are exactly where they should be.’ He looked towards the images again. ‘I have a daughter roughly the same age as the second victim.’ He turned back to Fabel. ‘But I can do without the Erste Bürgermeister of Hamburg breathing down my neck.’

‘As I said, sir, we’re all trying to nail this bastard as quickly as we can.’

‘Another thing. All of this “spreading the wings of the eagle” and “our sacred soil” … I don’t like it. It sounds political. The eagle – the German eagle?’

‘Could be,’ Fabel said, looking over to Susanne Eckhardt.

‘Could be …’ she confirmed. When she spoke her voice was tinged with a southern accent: Munich, Fabel reckoned. ‘But the eagle is a potent psychological image in any culture, an icon for power and predation. The eagle could be his metaphor: observing, circling above, unseen by his prey, then swooping silently for the kill. It’s more likely that he is motivated by some deeply sublimated and abstracted sexual drive rather than extremist political ideology. This man isn’t a fanatic: he’s a psychotic. There’s a difference … although I must admit the religiosity of the e-mail – the sense of crusade – and the ritualised method of death bother me.’