‘So how does he make a living?’

‘My organisation is not the only game in town, Herr Fabel. Besides, he worked regularly as an assistant manager at one of our clubs, the Paradies-Tanzbar. All quite legitimate.’ Yilmaz gave a half smile and took another sip of coffee. ‘Well, almost.’

‘We believe there was a video camera hidden in the girl’s apartment. It’s missing along with any tapes. You’ve said you’re not into back-street hookers. Well, I wouldn’t place this girl in that category. She was high-end. What about blackmail? Is that a business you’re into?’

Yilmaz’s posture in the leather chair tautened.

‘This is getting a little tiresome, Herr Fabel. I already told you that I didn’t know about the existence of this girl, far less any schemes she and Klugmann may have been involved in.’ He paused, sat back and let the tension ease from his pose. ‘Look, let me explain something to you. I have lived in this country for more than half of my life. When I arrived here I found out very quickly that only certain doors were open to Gastarbeiter Turks. The door that was open to me was that of Ersin, my cousin. I worked for twenty years within or attached to his organisation. For the last ten of those years I have steadily legitimised those elements under my control. Now that Ersin is dead, the entire operation is in my control and I am legitimising that.’

‘But let’s be honest, you’re still responsible for a huge slice of Hamburg’s drug business …’

‘I hope you’re not looking for confessions.’ Yilmaz smiled coldly. ‘I know that Buchholz sees me as a Turkish Al Capone – and I admit freely that I have broken and continue to break the law – but I am a criminal more by accident than by design. Believe it or not I am a very moral man, but to me the law can be a very different thing from right and justice. Sometimes I think that what most irritates Hauptkommissar Buchholz is that I, a Turk and a crook in his eyes, may do at a stroke what he’s been trying to achieve for years: wipe out the Ulugbay criminal organisation. I admit that Ersin would have been up for a bit of blackmail, particularly if it could lever influence as well as money out of the victim. But not me.’

Yilmaz stood up suddenly and walked across to the ornate marble fireplace. He lifted a silver-framed photograph and brought it over to Fabel. It was a picture of a smiling boy, about fourteen. Already the childlike softness was evaporating from the face to expose the same strong jawline as Yilmaz’s.

‘Your son?’

‘Yes. Johann. A German name for a German future. He speaks only a little Turkish and even that with a thick German accent. His identity has to lie in this country, Herr Fabel. I’m making sure that when he takes over the family business it will be a clean business. A legal business. A German business.’