‘Anything on the killer?’

‘No forensic evidence of the killer’s presence. As I said, no evidence of sexual intercourse nor of any other sexual activity. It’s definitely the same killer as the other one – or at least, the method of killing is identical. The killer made a single incision which was caused by a powerful but incredibly accurate blow to the sternum, probably with some heavy, large-bladed knife, or perhaps a sword, after which the ribs were prised open and the lungs excavated. There were stress indicators and splintering on the sheared bone edges, suggesting a sweeping, forceful blow downwards. The separation of the ribs would have taken considerable physical strength, as would the single-blow incision. This is a man all right … and the arc of penetration suggests probably not less than one metre seventy tall, with at least a medium build.’

‘That narrows it down to about ninety per cent of the male population of Hamburg,’ said Fabel, without sarcasm and more to himself than to Möller.

‘All I deal with is the physical evidence, Fabel. Although I am intrigued by the victim’s obvious regard for her own health and fitness.’ Möller laughed. ‘I don’t have the benefit of your experience of the underside of our city’s life, but I wouldn’t have imagined that the average Hamburg prostitute places much importance on her health – or that of her clients.’

‘That depends. She appears to have been high-end – taking care of her body would be an investment in … well, her product. But you’ve got a point. There’s not much about this victim that fits. Did my guys take her prints?’

‘Yes, they were over earlier.’

‘Okay. Thanks, Herr Doktor Möller,’ Fabel made for the door. ‘I’ll get your full report this afternoon.’

‘Fabel.’

‘Yes?’

‘There’s one more thing …’

‘What?’

‘There’s an old wound on the right upper thigh, outer aspect. A scar.’

‘Bad enough to be a distinguishing mark that could help us identify her?’

‘Well, yes, I think it increases your chances considerably. But it has more significance than that …’

‘What do you mean?’

Möller turned back to his computer and punched a few keys. ‘I’ve got the photograph from the digital camera loaded into my report. Here it is.’

Fabel looked at the screen. A picture of the woman’s thigh, the skin bleached white. There was a round mark with a lateral scar and some puckering around it. It had the look of a faint and ancient lunar crater. Möller punched a key and another image appeared. This time it was the back of the thigh. Instead of being pale, it was a lurid purple-red. Post-mortem lividity: the body having lain on its back, gravity had drawn the blood to the lowest points.

‘Do you see here,’ Möller tapped the screen with his pen, ‘the corresponding scar on the other side? They were very faint scars … perhaps five or six years old. Do you know what they are?’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Fabel. After all, he had two similar scars himself.