He drank his coffee over by the picture windows, gazing blankly out over Hamburg. A steel sky clamped down on the city, sucking the colour from the water, the parks and the buildings, but a hint of rose bloom behind the clouds promised something better for later in the day. You’re somewhere out there, he thought, you’re under the same sky and you’re waiting to do it again. You can’t wait to do it again. And we can’t wait for you to make a mistake. The thought clenched in his belly like a fist.

As Fabel stood watching the sky and sipping his coffee, he went over in his mind what they had got so far. He had the jigsaw pieces that were all supposed to fit: a corrupt ex-cop, a prostitute murdered horrifically, a previous victim, four months before, with no shared history or other connection with the second murdered girl, and an egomaniacal sociopath claiming responsibility for the murders by e-mail. But whenever Fabel tried to put the pieces together they snagged on each other. All of it made sense at front of mind, but in some dark, small room at the back of Fabel’s brain, where it was being run through a deeper wash, a little red warning light was flashing brightly.

Fabel drained his coffee cup. He took a long deep breath, drawing in both air and the view across the Alster, then turned, picked up his jacket and his keys, and left for his office.

From the moment he arrived in the wide foyer of the Präsidium, Fabel was aware of frenetic activity. A dozen MEK officers, grey and black wraiths clutching their goggles and helmets, trotted past him and headed out to the front where an armoured transport awaited them. He passed Buchholz and Kolski, both of whom were engaged in a conversation with one of the Schutzpolizei’s Ersten Hauptkommisars, who held a blue tactical clipboard. They both looked in Fabel’s direction and nodded briefly and grimly. Fabel nodded back; although he was desperate to know what was going on, he recognised the stern determination on their faces and decided to leave them to it. Gerd Volker, the BND man, came out of the elevator with four hard-looking men as Fabel was about to get in. Volker smiled perfunctorily, wished Fabel a good morning and swept past him before he had a chance to speak.

When Fabel left the elevator, he met Werner in the hall of the Mordkommission.

‘What the hell’s going on?’

Werner pushed a copy of the Morgenpost, open at the appropriate page, into Fabel’s hands. ‘Ersin Ulugbay is dead. A real professional job.’

Fabel gave a low whistle. The image in the Morgenpost showed a man in an expensive coat sprawled on the blood- and oil-stained concrete. There was nothing in the article to indicate a motive, but it stated that one of the three victims was Ersin Ulugbay, ‘a well-known figure in the Hamburg underworld’. The two other victims, both male and believed to be of Turkish origin, were yet to be identified. Fabel wasn’t surprised that he had encountered so much grim-faced activity downstairs.