‘Hey baby, what’s up?’ For the first time she heard his voice clearly. There was a hint of some kind of accent.

‘I’m thirsty. I took some E earlier. I don’t want to get dehydrated.’

‘Then let’s go to my place to chill. I’ve got some mineral water in my car. It’s just around the corner. Come on.’ He took her firmly by the arm.

His car was a sleek, new silver Porsche and they fell against it, becoming entwined again. She pulled away. ‘I’m really thirsty … maybe we should go back …’

He beeped off the alarm and leaned into the car, pulling out two half-litre Evian bottles. He twisted the cap off of one and handed it to her, drinking from the second himself. She took the water and gulped greedily.

‘It tastes salty,’ she said.

He ran his tongue up her neck, from the shoulder strap of her top to the lobe of her ear. ‘So do you.’

She felt suddenly dizzy and slumped against the car. He moved swiftly and caught her, his hands under her arms. ‘Easy …’ he said solicitously. ‘You’d better sit down.’ He guided her towards the open door of the car. She looked up and down the empty street and then into his eyes. They had changed: they were still the same amazing green, but now they glittered cold and empty.

But she was not afraid.

Friday 13 June, 11.50 a.m. Alsterarkaden, Hamburg.

Fabel had left the Präsidium immediately after the case conference. They had reviewed the progress made over the last week: none. Klugmann was still on the loose, and as an ex-policeman, he would know how to stay on the loose; the leads from the last murder had run cold and they still did not have an identity for the dead girl; even Fabel’s green-eyed Slav seemed to have walked from the murder scene and evaporated into the night. Other than the fact that Dorn had given a name and provenance to the ritualism of this killer’s barbarity, they were no closer to nailing him. Fabel was also deeply concerned about Mahmoot, with whom he had still not made contact. Mahmoot was notoriously difficult to reach, but he would have known that not returning Fabel’s calls would set alarm bells ringing.

Fabel was not the only wrong-footed cop in Hamburg. Almost every law-enforcement officer in the city had been unnerved by the failure of a gang war to erupt. There had been no retaliations for Ulugbay’s murder. In fact, there seemed to have been no intergang violence at all, which in itself was very strange. The Präsidium still buzzed with BND and LKA7 personnel, but the adrenalin-charged intensity had dissolved into an uneasy, frustrated readiness.

This case had begun to suck the light from Fabel’s life. It wasn’t the first to do so and Fabel knew it wouldn’t be the last. It was like hacking his way into dense jungle, slicing a swathe through the clinging undergrowth, only to find that it had closed in behind him, shutting off the way back to the open, to his own life and world, populated by the people he loved. The only way was to press on, cutting a path forward and out into the light.