‘Couple of things. First of all …’ Fabel reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a photograph. It was the face of the murdered girl. It had been taken in the morgue and the face had been washed clean of blood and the hair brushed back; death and the sterile lighting had bleached the face into a spiritless mask. ‘I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got, other than an old fuzzy photograph of her as a teenager. Do you recognise her?’

Mahmoot shook his head. ‘Nah.’

‘Take a good look. I think she was a hooker. Maybe worked in the porn business.’

‘Not with me. But she’s … well she’s not exactly looking her best in this photograph. Difficult to tell.’ Mahmoot went to hand the photograph back.

‘Keep it,’ Fabel said, ‘ask about a bit. It’s important.’

‘What was her name?’

‘That’s the thing, Mahmoot. Other than “Monique”, which we think is just some kind of professional name, she doesn’t have a name, a permanent address or even a history before the night she was killed. Except for one thing: she had a bullet wound on her upper right thigh. We reckon she got it sometime between five and ten years ago. Does that ring a bell?’

‘Sorry, Jan … but let me sniff around and see what I can find out. How was she killed?’

‘Someone decided to carry out an anatomy lesson on her. Sliced her open and scooped out her lungs.’

‘Fuck!’ Mahmoot’s shock was genuine. Fabel could never understand how Mahmoot managed to retain his intelligence and humanity, given the work he was involved in. ‘Is this the big case the papers have been going on about?’

‘’Fraid so,’ said Fabel. ‘This guy is our number-one priority. This has got serial written all over it. I’ve got to get to him before his appetite returns.’

‘I’ll do what I can. But you know I’ve got to be careful. My social circle isn’t exactly renowned for its civic-mindedness. If they thought I was working for the cops I’d end up on a morgue slab myself.’

‘I know – and I want you to be extra careful with this one …’

‘Why?’

‘There’s a lot going on in the background I don’t like. The BND is sniffing about all of a sudden … and the guy who owned the flat was ex-Mobiles Einsatz Kommando.’

Mahmoot gave a start. ‘Hans Klugmann?’

Fabel was surprised that Mahmoot knew the name. ‘You know him?’

‘Vaguely. Our paths have crossed, so to speak.’ Mahmoot straightened his frame and took a step back from Fabel. ‘Oh no … hold on a minute … Klugmann is tied up with Ersin Ulugbay and Mehmet Yilmaz, isn’t he?’

‘We believe so.’

‘Listen Jan, I help you out whenever I can. I owe you, after all – but this is different. No way am I sniffing around Ulugbay. He’s not just the biggest Turkish Mafia godfather in Hamburg, he’s a total fucking headcase.’

‘Okay, okay, take it easy!’ Fabel held up his hands as if to stem the vehemence of Mahmoot’s refusal. ‘I don’t want you to do anything dodgy, just keep an ear to the ground. See if you can dig up anything on Klugmann. What do you know about him, anyway?’