Fabel got a shock when he realised that he had no recollection of the last half-hour of driving, as if he had been on some kind of autopilot while his mind had wandered over his future, his relationship with Susanne, and a faceless killer in a city he hardly knew. Suddenly he realised that Norden had taken a monochrome form around him. He continued along Norddeicher Strasse towards the North Sea and his mother’s home.

10.

Maria Klee walked by the restaurant again. She had done so a dozen times over the last two days, wearing something different each time. She had even donned scruffy jeans and a sweatshirt, tucking her blonde hair into the knitted cap that she had bought at Karstadt. She had learned her lesson. If this restaurant was under any kind of federal surveillance, then the frequency of her passing by it would not be noticed.

The owners of the Biarritz were not Ukrainians, but the restaurant had been one on a twenty-page list of German businesses included in the BKA file that were suspected of using Ukrainians trafficked by Vitrenko’s outfit. Maria felt at a disadvantage. In Hamburg – Hanover, even – she knew the lie of the land. But here she was hunting across an unknown landscape. She felt exposed. She was after dangerous quarry and she could just as easily find herself becoming the hunted and not the hunter. She had found a way to get to the back door of the Biarritz: a circuitous route of lanes and alleys. She knew that the Ukrainian boy did the most menial tasks and that in a restaurant kitchen there is always trash to be taken out and sorted. She watched the rear of the restaurant from an alley lined with waste and recycling bins. The back of the Biarritz was windowless on the ground floor and the fire door was heavy and sheeted with metal. This security meant that the management had clearly felt that a CCTV system was unnecessary; and that allowed Maria to approach him without the encounter being recorded or even witnessed. If she wanted the Ukrainian to talk, he would have to feel safe. That was if she could get him to talk.

It was cold. Maria had wrapped up well. She had grown to hate the cold, something that had never bothered her before that night. As she had lain in the long grass, with Fabel’s face close to hers, she had felt a chill like no other she had ever experienced. She had fought to stay awake and her breathing had been short and shallow. Fabel’s breath had been warm on her cold cheek and Maria had realised that Death is cold. Since then, she had made sure that she never felt cold.

The restaurant’s rear door opened and a skinny man in his early twenties appeared. He was wearing a white T-shirt, along with a stained apron that hung from his waist to his shins. He cast a glance over his shoulder back into the kitchen before lighting a cigarette and leaning against the wall. He looked tired and gaunt and smoked the cigarette with the appreciation of someone snatching a precious and rare private moment. He stood up when he saw Maria approach. He turned to go back into the kitchen.