Fabel pulled up and ran through the rain from his car to the shelter of the canopy. A rotund man of fifty, with florid cheeks and dressed in a white overcoat and cook’s hat, stood behind the counter. He leaned forward onto his elbows as Fabel approached.

‘Good morning, Herr Kriminalhauptkommissar,’ he said, with an accent that was as broad and flat as the Frisian landscape to which it belonged. ‘And might I say you look like shit today.’

‘Been a rough night, Dirk,’ answered Fabel, his own speech slipping from strict Hochdeutsch into his natural Frysk. ‘I’ll have a Jever and a coffee.’

Dirk served the Frisian beer and the coffee.

‘Have you seen Mahmoot lately?’

‘No, not for a while, now that you mention it. Something up?’

Fabel sipped his beer. ‘I need to talk to him, that’s all. I’ll give him a buzz later – if I can get a hold of him. You know what he’s like.’ Fabel sipped the thick, black coffee. It scalded his lips so he put it down and took another sip of the Jever.

‘I take it this is your lunch?’ Dirk nodded at the beer and the coffee.

‘Okay, give me a Käsebrot to go with it. If you see Mahmoot could you let him know I’ve been looking for him? I know I don’t need to tell you to be discreet.’ Fabel looked past Dirk; on the wall of the caravan behind him was a photograph of Dirk, about fifteen years younger and slimmer, in his green SchuPo uniform. Fabel nodded towards the photograph. ‘Don’t you get hassle because of that?’

He handed Fabel a split bread roll filled with cheese and gherkin and shrugged. His smile broadened. ‘Occasionally. Sometimes I get a rough crowd down here, but I find that my diplomacy usually works on them …’ He reached under the counter and pulled out a large Glock automatic. Fabel coughed on his beer and looked around to make sure the other customers hadn’t seen.

‘For Christ’s sake, Dirk, put it away. I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that.’

Dirk laughed and reached out and down and slapped Fabel affectionately on the cheek. ‘Now, now, don’t get agitated, Jannik …’ Little Jan. It had been Dirk’s nickname for Fabel when they had served together. Despite Dirk’s inferior rank as an Obermeister in the uniform branch, the Schutzpolizei, the young Kommissar Fabel had quickly recognised the wealth of experience the older policeman had to offer. Dirk had willingly shown Fabel the ropes. He had done the same for Franz Webern, the young policeman who had died the same day Fabel had been shot. Dirk had taken Franz’s death very badly. When he had visited Fabel in hospital after the shooting, it was the only time Fabel could recall Dirk stripped of his infectious good humour.

The rain had stopped and the sun probed a shaft of light through the furls of cloud, etching the latticed shadow of the cranes’ superstructure across the car park. Fabel paid for the Käsebrot, beer and coffee. He tossed an extra few coins down. ‘I’ll take a SCHAU MAL! as well,’ he said, pulling a copy out of the news-stand.