Fabel had been here for years. He loved it. His apartment lay where the student quarter – the university was within walking distance – collided with rich and trendy Pöseldorf. In one direction Fabel could browse through the countless book and record stores on the Grindelhof, or catch an obscure, late-night foreign film at the Abaton Kino; in the other direction he could sink into the chic affluence of the Milchstrasse, with its wine bars, jazz clubs, boutiques and restaurants.

The clouds had finally surrendered the sky to the sun. Fabel stared blankly at the view; a dull nauseating anxiety gnawing at his gut. He looked out over the Aussenalster again, hungrily trying to absorb its calm. The scenic Hamburg that opened itself before the apartment’s picture windows seemed neither scenic nor open. Fabel scanned the horizon, then swept his gaze like a searchlight over the familiar view: the vast mirror of the Aussenalster reflecting a steely sky, the expanses of green that fringed it and punctuated the city, and the orderly residences and offices that sat like temperate, self-assured burghers supervising the progress of the day. Today the view did not calm Fabel. Today it was not ‘another’ Hamburg, removed from the city of his work. Today, as he scrutinised the view, he was aware of the fusion between the city he loved and the city he policed. Out there, somewhere, was something monstrous. Something evil. Something so violent and malevolent it was difficult to imagine it as being human.

Fabel went back into the kitchen and refilled his coffee cup. He stabbed the replay button as he passed his answering machine. The sterile electronic voice announced that there were three messages. The first was from the Hamburger Morgenpost, asking for a comment on the latest killing. How the hell did these people get his home number? Anyway, they should know better; wait for the official statement. The last two messages were from another journalist, Angelika Blüm. The name Maria had mentioned earlier. Her tone was strange, insistent. Instead of asking Fabel for some kind of comment, she had said, in her last message: ‘It’s vital that we talk …’ A new approach. Ignore it.

He drained the last of his coffee and made his way across to the phone. He made two calls. The first was to Werner at the office: he was on the other line and Fabel left a message that he was on his way back in. For the second call, Fabel hugged the handset between shoulder and ear while he flicked through his pocket diary for the number. The phone rang for a long time before it was answered.

‘Yeah?’

‘Mahmoot? It’s Fabel. I want a meet …’

‘When?’

‘The Rundfahrt ferry. Seven-thirty …’

‘Okay.’

Fabel replaced the receiver, slipped his diary back into his jacket pocket and reset his answering machine. He was about to leave the apartment when he turned back and played the messages once more. He listened to Angelika Blüm’s telephone number again; it began with 040: a Hamburg number. This time he noted it down on the pad that sat next to the phone. Just in case.