‘Who is it?’

‘Frau Blüm? This is Kriminalhauptkommissar Fabel of the Polizei Hamburg. You’ve been trying to get in touch with me. May I come up?’

Angelika looked down at her bathrobe and slippers and swore under her breath. She sighed and pushed the button to speak. ‘Of course, Herr Fabel. Come on up.’ She pressed the button to release the door and moments later heard his footsteps echoing in the hall. She opened the door but kept it on the chain. The man in the hall held up his oval KriPo shield and Angelika smiled and slipped the chain from the door.

‘Please excuse me, Herr Fabel. I wasn’t expecting anyone.’ She stood to one side to let him in.

Saturday 14 June, 11.30 p.m. Pöseldorf, Hamburg.

The moonlight through the deep windows cut geometric shapes across the floor and walls of Fabel’s bedroom and accented the sweeps and curves of Susanne’s body as she lowered herself onto him. It cast her moving shadow on the wall as the initial gentle, quiet, rhythm of their lovemaking grew in intensity.

Afterwards they lay together: Susanne on her back, Fabel on his side, resting his head on an elbow and studying the moonlight-etched profile of his lover. He raised himself up onto one elbow and looked down at her. Tenderly, he pushed back a strand of hair from her brow.

‘Will you stay the night?’

Susanne gave a cosy moan. ‘I’m too comfortable here to get up and get dressed.’ She turned to him and smiled wickedly. ‘But I’m not tired enough to sleep.’

Fabel was about to answer when the phone rang. He gave Susanne a resigned smile and said: ‘Hold that thought. I’ll be right back.’

Fabel rose and walked naked to the phone. It was Karl Zimmer, the duty Kommissar at the Mordkommission.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,’ Zimmer said, ‘but something’s come up that you ought to know about.’

‘What?’

‘We’ve received another e-mail from Son of Sven.’

I AM, AS YOU WILL HAVE GATHERED, A MAN OF FEW WORDS. MY VICTIM, HOWEVER, WAS A WOMAN OF MANY.

I DO NOT CARE FOR WOMEN WHO DO NOT FULFIL THEIR PRIMARY FUNCTION, BUT CHOOSE THE SELFISHNESS OF A CAREER OVER THE NATURAL IMPERATIVE TO BREED. THIS ONE WAS WORSE THAN MOST. SHE SAW IT AS HER CALLING TO DEFAME THOSE WHOSE NOBILITY SHE COULD NEVER ASPIRE TO: SOLDIERS WHO FOUGHT AGAINST ANARCHY AND CHAOS.

I HAVE ADDED A TWIST THIS TIME. SHE THOUGHT I WAS YOU, HERR FABEL. IT WAS TO YOU SHE BEGGED FOR HER LIFE. IT WAS YOUR NAME THAT BURNED IN HER BRAIN AS SHE DIED.

SHE HAS SPREAD HER WINGS.

SON OF SVEN

Sunday 15 June, 1.30 a.m. Polizeipräsidium, Hamburg.

‘I’m sorry to have pulled you all in at such an ungodly hour,’ said Fabel, but his businesslike expression suggested the apology was a formality. The figures around the table all had the puffy-eyed look of unwelcome awakening, but no one complained; everyone realised the importance of the arrival of a new e-mail. ‘But this new e-mail has some unpleasant twists to it, to say the least.’