‘You do surprise me.’

Werner showed Fabel a print-out that looked like a phone bill without the costs, just numbers dialled and durations. ‘I got the details of Klugmann’s cell phone account …’ Werner read Fabel’s raised eyebrows. ‘It wasn’t easy.’ He tapped the beefy tip of his forefinger on an entry. ‘Look at this … he phoned this number at two-thirty-five a.m… . it’s the number for the local police. Just like he said and just like the station logged.’ Werner slid his finger down the page. ‘Now look at this. Two-twenty-two a.m… .’

Fabel looked up from the entry and held Werner’s eyes. ‘The bastard.’

‘Exactly. He was on the phone for twelve minutes to that number. He must have hung up and then dialled the local police. Now who the hell do you phone before the police when you’ve just found a so-called friend sliced up like butcher-meat? Pizza delivery?’

‘So who is it? Whose number is it?’

Werner leaned his broad back against the chair and tilted it slightly. ‘That’s the other thing. I have checked and double-checked through every relevant federal department, Deutsche Telekom, the cell phone operators … this number –’ he let his chair slam forward again and stabbed his finger at the entry – ‘does not exist.’

‘It has to exist.’

‘It clearly does, because Klugmann was talking to it for twelve minutes, but it is not recorded anywhere. We’re left with only one thing to do.’

‘You haven’t already tried?’

‘I thought I’d leave the honours to you, Chef.’

Fabel picked up his cell phone and dialled. It was answered after the second ring, but no one spoke.

Fabel waited a moment before speaking. ‘Hello?’

Silence.

‘Hello?’ Fabel thought he heard the sound of a breath at the other end. He was pretty sure he was connected to a cell phone. After a couple of seconds he spoke again. ‘Hello … it’s me …’ The line went dead. Fabel redialled the number. He let it ring for several minutes before hanging up. He turned to Werner. ‘Okay … do Anna and Paul still have Klugmann under surveillance?’

Werner nodded.

‘Let’s bring him in.’

It was more of an alley than a street. Because it was so narrow and ran east–west, and because the red sandstone buildings that lined it were never less than three storeys high, it was also gloomy. Parking was permitted only on one side of the street and Anna Wolff and Paul Lindemann’s BMW was parked halfway along. There were no other spaces available, so Fabel, with Werner in the passenger seat, had to pull in around the corner.

Sonja Brun appeared around the corner, carrying two Aldi carrier bags, heavy with groceries. She was tall, slim, with long, bronzed legs. Her hair was dark and long, pushed back from her face by the improvised hairband of her sunglasses, which were shoved up onto the top of her head. She looked lithe and fit. Fabel thought of the comments Möller, the pathologist, had made about the second victim’s levels of fitness. Sonja was a pole-dancer at the Paradies-Tanzbar, among other things. Maybe ‘Monique’ had been a whore, after all.