Fabel nodded his head slowly. ‘I accept all of that, but what if I am the focus of all of this? What if he is engaging me in … well, some kind of challenge. I killed one of his women so he is killing women whom I, as a policeman, am supposed to protect?’

Susanne Eckhardt laughed. ‘Now we’re swapping roles, and I have to say that’s pretty lousy psychology. It’s a tenuous link to say the least.’ She laid her glasses on the table before her, straightened her shoulders and tilted her head back, her dark eyes focused on Fabel. He felt awkward under her relentless gaze, fearful that his attraction to her might show. ‘But if you’re going to play psychologist,’ she continued, smiling, ‘then let me play policeman. You admit yourself that we’re talking about someone who is more than likely dead …’

‘Yes.’

‘And in this latest e-mail he has described himself as having “lived his life on the edge of other people’s photographs”. It doesn’t exactly fit with a headline-making terrorist with a harem of young female acolytes …’

Van Heiden laughed. ‘Dr Eckhardt, maybe I should give you Herr Fabel’s job …’ He turned to Fabel, the smile disappearing as he did so. ‘Now, Fabel, let’s focus on living suspects.’

Fabel was still watching Dr Eckhardt. Her smile remained and she held Fabel’s gaze, a hint of dark fire in her eyes.

‘Well, as I said, I saw it only as a remote possibility.’

Dr Eckhardt donned her glasses again and scanned through her report. ‘Another thing we should be looking at is previous unsolved rapes or attempted rapes. Our killer may have committed sexual assaults in the past as a prelude to the main event.’

‘Have we looked at recent attacks such as the ones Frau Doktor Eckhardt has described?’ asked Van Heiden. Werner looked across to Fabel, mimicking a ‘now why didn’t we think of that?’ expression. Another warning look.

‘Yes, Herr Kriminaldirektor,’ Fabel answered. ‘We have interviewed all known sex offenders that fit the broad profile. Nothing on them. Although there was a number of attacks on women in the Harburg and Altona areas last year that we haven’t accounted for. We’re re-interviewing the victims, just in case.’

‘All right, Kriminalhauptkommissar Fabel,’ said Van Heiden, ‘keep me notified. In the meantime we have an appointment to keep.’ He checked his watch. ‘See you upstairs in ten minutes?’

‘Fine.’

Fabel stepped over to the wall covered with the scene-of-crime photographs of the victims. The flash photography made the images unnaturally vivid: nauseous colours exploding across the glossy prints. They looked unreal, Goyaesque. But they were real: four long months ago Werner and Fabel had stood on a cold and wind-blasted Lüneburg Heath, collars turned up against the sharp edge of a wind born in Siberia that had swept unimpeded across the low, flat Baltic plain. It had been like a moonscape, the night illumined by the stark glare of portable arc lamps, the chill air crackling with the sibilant chatter of police radios. They had gazed down at the mutilated body of the first victim, Ursula Kastner, a twenty-nine-year-old civic lawyer who had stepped out of her office and straight into hell. She had lain before them on the heath with a gaping blackness in the middle of her chest. The next day the first e-mail had arrived for Fabel.