‘I didn’t think SCHAU MAL! would be your thing,’ said Dirk.

‘It’s not …’ Fabel flipped the folded tabloid open. The headline slapped Fabel in the face.

MANIACAL RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN! POLIZEI HAMBURG POWERLESS TO STOP MADMAN! Underneath the headline was a photograph of Horst Van Heiden with the caption: KRIMINALDIREKTOR VAN HEIDEN: THE MAN FAILING TO KEEP HAMBURG’S WOMEN SAFE.

‘Scheisse …’ muttered Fabel. Van Heiden would be going through the roof. The editorial blasted the Polizei Hamburg and offered a reward for information. The centre spread was also devoted to the story. Another shrill headline proclaimed: WHO CARES ABOUT CATCHING THIS MONSTER? SCHAU MAL! DOES. WE WILL PAY €l0,000 FOR INFORMATION THAT LEADS TO THE ARREST AND CONVICTION OF THIS MANIAC!

‘What’s up?’ asked Dirk. Fabel tossed the paper across the counter to Dirk. ‘Oh, I see … let me guess, this is your case?’

‘Got it in one.’ Fabel drained his beer and then his coffee and left the uneaten bread roll on the counter. ‘Better go. Before Van Heiden puts up a reward for my hide.’

‘Tschüss, Jan.’

Wednesday 4 June, 2.45 p.m. Polizeipräsidium, Hamburg.

LKA7 – the Organised Crime Division – is separated from the rest of the Hamburg Polizeipräsidium by heavy security doors, which in turn are controlled from a security desk. Closed-circuit security cameras sweep the corridors leading to LKA7, and everyone approaching the department is watched by the armed officers manning the security desk. A secure environment within a secure environment; a police station within a police station.

The fight against organised crime in Hamburg had become a secretive and violent game. Immigrant Mafias – specifically Turkish, Russian, Ukrainian and Lithuanian – were involved in a constant struggle with indigenous German gangs for control of the two most lucrative criminal markets: sex and drugs. There was even a special department LKA7.1 devoted to the fight against Hamburg’s Hell’s Angels, who had carved out a piece of the organised-crime market for themselves.

LKA7 had, as a consequence, developed a reputation for secrecy itself. It was a war, and the mentality of the division’s officers had almost become more that of soldiers than policemen.

Fabel approached the screen door and pressed the buzzer. At the command of a speaker above the door he identified himself and held his police ID up to the camera. A harsh electrical buzz and loud click confirmed his permission to enter. An older uniformed officer of massive build and with a shaven head awaited Fabel at the security desk.

‘Someone will be along shortly, sir.’ The desk man smiled. He was clearly out of practice. ‘They will take you along to see Hauptkommissar Buchholz.’

Fabel had just sat down at the small reception area when another huge man approached. His blond hair was cropped almost to the scalp and muscles bulged under the stretched fabric of his black polo-necked shirt. The broad shoulders were braced with a tan leather shoulder holster which held a massive and non-regulation Magnum automatic. As he approached, the muscleman smiled, exposing a row of perfect white teeth. The question ‘Does it bite?’ flashed through Fabel’s mind.