‘Why do you?’

‘Why am I a policeman? Because someone has to do it. Someone has to stand in the way, I suppose … between the ordinary man, woman or child and those that would harm them.’ Fabel stopped abruptly, realising he had more or less repeated Yilmaz’s analysis of him. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘you’re a doctor … there’s a hundred different ways in which you could help people. Why do you do this?’

‘I suppose I drifted into it. After qualifying in general medicine I studied psychiatry. Then psychology. Then criminal and forensic psychology. Before I knew it I had become uniquely qualified for this line of work.’

Fabel smiled broadly. ‘Well I’m glad that you did. Otherwise you wouldn’t have drifted in my direction. Now that’s enough shop talk …’ Fabel beckoned to a waiter.

Saturday 14 June, 8.50 p.m. Uhlenhorst, Hamburg.

Angelika Blüm cleared the clutter from the broad coffee table and spread out a large, detailed map of Middle and Eastern Europe. On top of this she laid out the photographs, the press cuttings, the company details and the pieces of paper she had cut out, each with a handwritten name on it: Klimenko, Kastner, Schreiber, Von Berg, Eitel (Jnr), Eitel (Snr). In the middle of the map she laid the last name. Whereas all the others were written in black, this name was in handwritten red felt-pen capitals: VITRENKO.

It was all there. But the connections that held her theory together were too fragile to withstand the pressure of jurisprudential scrutiny. All she could do was write it up and expose those involved to the attentions of investigators with greater resources than she had. Why hadn’t that bloody policeman got in touch? She knew Fabel was investigating Ursula’s murder and what she had to say would cast more light on it. Angelika had read about the second murder: the girl whose photograph they had published in an attempt to establish her identity. She did not recognise the woman nor could she see any connection with Ursula or the other elements in her investigation. Either this second murder was a copycat or there was some link that still lay beyond Angelika’s investigative horizon.

She rested her elbows on her knees and cradled the bowl of her coffee cup in her hands as she scanned the scattered pieces. They were like components of a machine waiting to be assembled, but she didn’t know how the machine worked, what its ultimate function was. Certainly, if all of these components could be put together it would make one hell of a story: a Hamburg Stadtsenator, the office of the Erste Bürgermeister, neo-Nazis, a leading media company and, right at the centre of it all, a faceless Ukrainian special-forces commander whose appetite for atrocity had made him a name others barely dared to speak: Vasyl Vitrenko.

She took a sip of her coffee and tried to disengage her mind from the puzzle for a moment. Sometimes you had to look away before you could refocus and see what had been in front of you all the time. The door buzzer made her jump. She sighed and placed her coffee down on top of the spread-out map and walked over to her entryphone.