‘So who runs this new outfit?’

‘That’s the thing. This new Ukrainian unit is supposed to only have about ten or twelve men with some kind of mega-bad-ass in charge.’

Fabel gazed out over the water, weighing up what Mahmoot had told him. Why the hell hadn’t Buchholz or Kolski told him all of this? Admittedly it wasn’t central to his investigation, but it could have a bearing. He turned to Mahmoot. ‘What I don’t understand is, if this new gang is so small, why don’t the other Ukrainians – or the Turks – just squash them flat?’

‘You haven’t heard the way the Ukrainians talk – or rather, don’t talk – about these guys. I mean, you know Yari Varasouv, don’t you?’ Fabel nodded: Varasouv was a gargantuan Ukrainian thug suspected of a string of gangland killings. He reputedly specialised in beating his victims to death with his massive, bare hands. The Polizei Hamburg had never been able to gather sufficient evidence to convict him. ‘Well, even Varasouv fucking whispers when he talks about these guys. Apparently he’s taken up early retirement at the behest of his new masters. I tell you, this new outfit scares him shitless. I mean, the Ukrainians are tough cookies – it’s almost as if it’s something more than the threat of death that is scaring them.’

‘I still don’t get what it is that is so special about these new faces.’

‘The rumour is that they are ex-Spetznaz …’

‘So what? I know that makes them extremely dangerous, but half of the Russian, Ukrainian and Baltic Mafias in Europe employ former Soviet-special-forces thugs …’

Mahmoot shook his head impatiently. ‘No, no. These guys are different. They belonged to a special field-police unit. Soviet Interior Ministry or some shit like that. Veterans of Afghanistan and Chechnya. I don’t know what they did out there, but my guess is whatever it was is scaring the crap out of everybody.’

The loudspeaker announced that the ferry was pulling in to the St Georg quay. Mahmoot grasped Fabel’s hand in a warm handshake, making sure first that no one would witness this act of friendship between himself and the policeman. ‘This is my stop. I’ll find out what I can about this girl and Klugmann. Take care of yourself, my friend.’

‘And you, Mahmoot.’

Fabel watched Mahmoot disembark. As the ferry pulled out again, Fabel noticed a pretty girl with short blonde hair who had just got off the ferry; the dying sun turned her hair an iridescent gold. He felt a pang as he gazed at her radiant youth. He turned and walked over to the other side of the ferry, and did not notice that the girl made off in the same direction as Mahmoot, twenty or so metres behind.

Wednesday 4 June, 8.45 p.m. Alsterpavilion, Hamburg.

The tiredness that had taken hold on Fabel in the afternoon now tightened its grip. When he got off the ferry he felt crumpled and grimy. The evening had defied the earlier gloom of the day and the low-slung sun now splashed the city red and copper-gold. He disembarked at the southern end of the Binnenalster and walked the short distance to the Alsterarkaden in the heart of the city. He took a table under the colonnades of the arcade and ordered a Matjes salad and a Jever beer with which to wash the herring down. The arcade ran along the side of the Alsterfleet and Fabel let his tired gaze drift idly over the water that sparkled in the evening light while swans glided effortlessly over its surface. On the other side of the Fleet lay the city’s main square from which the Rathaus jutted authoritatively up into the sky, the burnished copper clocks of its tower gleaming bright in the evening sun.