‘You’re safe now, Sonja. There’s going to be a police officer watching the flat from now on … until Hans comes back or until we find him.’

Ukrainians. Fabel recalled what Mahmoot had said about the new outfit in town. They must be in the frame for the hit on Ulugbay. And Klugmann worked for Ulugbay. But Klugmann was small-fry in what was shaping up to be a big gang war. He smiled reassuringly at Sonja.

‘Where do you think he could be? Maybe he just nipped out somewhere?’

Sonja shrugged again but her expression was one of deep anxiety. ‘He would have told me if he was going out this morning. He knew I was getting lunch …’ She looked over at the shopping bags across the room in the kitchen area. Her bottom lip quivered.

‘Don’t worry, love,’ said Fabel, ‘we’ll find him.’ He hoped to God he was right.

It was all going to hell and he knew his nerves were getting too edgy. He had to focus and stay sharp. Sharp was good; jumpy got you killed. There was a slide bolt on the front door of the flat – he had fucked up the main lock in his haste to get in – and he slipped the bolt over, hoping that they wouldn’t look too closely at the lock when they came to the door, which they inevitably would.

Klugmann had just made it and no more. He had been worried about Sonja: she had been late back from her shopping and he had been watching for her, angling his body by the window so that the two KriPo detectives – a man and a woman – in the tan BMW wouldn’t see him. Seeing Sonja’s jaunty walk, he had smiled to himself: she was a good kid and he had tried to keep her out of it all. Then he had spotted the two cops who’d interviewed him, Fabel and Meyer, following her. As she passed the BMW, the other two cops had got out too and fallen in behind. It was a bust. He didn’t know what they had got on him, but now was not the time to be hauled in for protracted questioning. He was too close. It had cost too much – in time, in effort, in a life – for him to be taken out of circulation right at the last minute. He had dashed across the room, grabbing his jacket and stuffing his gun into the pocket. He had closed the door behind him swiftly but not hard enough to slam and taken the stairs two at a time. The landlord had used the same doors on each of the apartments. Security depended on the outer door that opened out onto the street and not the doors to the apartments, which technically should really only have been used as interior doors. He had opened his clasp knife and pushed against the lock, leaning in hard with his shoulder. It was a precise craft: enough force to open the door without splintering the flimsy wood. He had heard the piano-string creak of the spring on the main street door downstairs: Sonja was coming in and they would be just a few paces behind her. The door had yielded and he had half fallen into the apartment, closing the door gently behind him. Then he had heard Sonja’s scream, Fabel’s shouts and the sound of movements and voices from the apartment above. He had closed his eyes, leaned the back of his head against the door and mouthed the word ‘Fuck’. His cell phone. He had left his cell phone behind. And that meant he had left his life-line behind. He’d have to get to a phone and quick.