Fabel had phoned Gabi, his daughter. She had planned to stay the weekend with Fabel, but he explained that he’d have to work at least part of the weekend. He hated having to give up his precious time with Gabi, but, as usual, she had understood. Renate, Fabel’s ex-wife, had responded less positively, her tone on the phone laced with an acid resignation.

Instead of taking his car, Fabel had hailed a taxi to take him up to the covered Arcade on the Alster. The sun was shining and the lack of a breeze – unusual in Hamburg – meant that it felt pleasantly warm outside. As always, the Arcade was packed with shoppers and Fabel weaved his way through the crowds with an unhurried purposefulness. His goal was the Jensen Buchhandlung, a bookshop run by a university friend of Fabel’s, Otto Jensen.

Fabel loved this bookshop. Otto had invested in the most stylish minimalist interior design – clean, straight beechwood shelves and tables and bright lighting – most probably at the behest of his infinitely more organised and style-conscious wife, Else. Otto, on the other hand, was a moving focus of chaos: a gangling, one-metre-ninety tangle of arms and legs who continually seemed to be knocking things over or spilling a cascade of books and papers from overfull arms. Books were stacked on every surface, magazines heaped on the floor or piled on the counter. But the range of titles was stunning, and the disorder simply turned every visit into a voyage of discovery. In some strange way the disarray was the purest language of the bibliophile. It was a language Fabel spoke.

As Fabel entered, he saw Otto sitting behind the counter. He had a book on his lap, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. It was a pose that Fabel had associated with Otto since their university days: a posture that made Fabel think that Otto was drawing in his gangly limbs to form a cage, cocooning himself from the outside world and committing himself exclusively to the universe that existed between the covers of whatever book he was reading.

Fabel walked over to the counter and leaned both elbows on a pile of books. It took a couple of seconds for Otto to realise someone was there.

‘Sorry … can I help y—’ The question broke into a broad smile. ‘Well, well, well … if it isn’t the powers of law enforcement …’

Fabel grinned. ‘Hello Otto, you old dope.’

‘Hello Jan. How are you?’

‘Not bad. You?’

‘Crap. I have a store full of people who browse until they see something they like, and then go home and find it second-hand on the Internet. And the rent on this place is astronomical. The price of a trendy location, Else says.’

‘How is Else?’ asked Fabel. ‘Still not realised she’s far too good for you?’

‘Oh no, she tells me that all the time. Apparently, I should be eternally thankful that she took pity on me.’ Otto smiled his gormless smile.