Fabel looked directly over the table at the unknown man. Van Heiden caught the look and made the introduction.

‘This is Oberst Gerd Volker of the BND. Oberst Volker, Kriminalhauptkommissar Fabel. Please sit down, Fabel.’

Here we go, thought Fabel. The BND – Bundesnachrichtendienst – was the intelligence service, charged with protecting the Grundgesetz: the Basic Law, or constitution, of the German Federal Republic. It was the job of the BND to monitor terrorist and extremist groups, both right and left, active or dormant, in Germany’s political landscape. And, since 1996, the BND had been involved in the fight against organised crime. Fabel’s distrust of the BND was profound. Secret police are secret police, whatever initials you give them.

Volker smiled and reached across the table. ‘I’m pleased to meet you Herr Fabel. I read a great deal about your work on the Markus Stümbke case last year …’

The two men shook hands.

‘And this is Innensenator Ganz,’ continued Van Heiden.

Ganz extended his hand; the scrubbed face did not break into a smile. ‘This is a terrible business, Herr Kriminalkommissar,’ said Ganz, demoting Fabel by several ranks. ‘I hope that you are employing all means at your disposal to put a stop to this.’

‘Erster Kriminalhauptkommissar,’ corrected Fabel, ‘and it goes totally without saying, Senator, that we are doing all we can to catch this killer.’

‘I’m sure you’re aware that the press is whipping up public concern almost to a state of frenzy …’ It was the figure by the window who spoke, turning at last to face the others. A tall, elegant, lean, broad-shouldered man in his early fifties, with intense blue eyes and a long, thin, intelligent face carved with vertical lines. His hair was as much grey as blond and expensively cut. Fabel, himself an admirer of fine English tailoring, reckoned that the expensive royal-blue shirt was from Jermyn Street, London. The suit was definitely Italian. The overall effect was more of taste and style than ostentation. Fabel had never met the man before, but recognised him instantly. After all, he had voted for him.

‘Yes, Herr Erste Bürgermeister, it has not escaped my notice.’ Fabel spun the leather chair he was sitting on around to face Hamburg’s first mayor and leader of the Hamburg state government, Dr Hans Schreiber.

Schreiber smiled. ‘You’re the one they call der englische Kommissar, aren’t you?’

‘Incorrectly, yes.’

‘You’re not English?’

‘No. I can honestly say I haven’t a drop of English blood in me. My mother is a Scot, my father was a Frisian. We lived in England for a while when I was a kid. Part of my education was there. Why do you ask?’

‘Just curious. I’m an Anglophile myself. After all, they say Hamburg is “the most British city outside the United Kingdom” … Anyway, I find it interesting – that they call you the English Kommissar, I mean. It marks you out as … well, different. Do you see yourself as different, Herr Fabel?’