senators on his way out of a stripclub.’
‘ SCHAU MAL! ?’ Fabel looked puzzled.
Mahmoot laughed. ‘Oh they don’t mind dealing with a Turk if they get something that sells copies.’
‘And I dare say that the senator in question was a Social Democrat?’ Fabel asked.
‘Got it in one.’
‘I can’t understand why you would choose to deal with them. After all, they’re just a bunch of racist bastards.’
Mahmoot shrugged. ‘Listen. I was born and raised in this country. I’m as German as anyone. But because my parents came here as Turkish Gastarbeiters, I spent most of my life, in fact right up until the Schroeder government came in, not entitled to a German passport or nationality.’ The half smile faded from his face. ‘I’ve decided that whatever I can get out of this country I’ll take.’
Fabel stared out over the water. The ferry had touched the east side of the Alster at Uhlenhorst and was now heading south. ‘I can’t blame you, Mahmoot. It’s just that I think you’re really talented. Some of those photographs you took of immigrant families were brilliant … I hate seeing that talent going to waste.’
‘Listen, Jan. I was proud of that work, but no one wanted to buy it. So I take cheap shots for crappy tabloids and when that dries up I have to do porn shoots. I hate it, as you know, but I have to do it to earn a living.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘Anyway,’ the smile returned to Mahmoot’s face, ‘you didn’t call for a meet to discuss the state of my soul. What can I do for you?’
‘Couple of things. First of all …’ Fabel reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a photograph. It was the face of the murdered girl. It had been taken in the morgue and the face had been washed clean of blood and the hair brushed back; death and the sterile lighting had bleached the face into a spiritless mask. ‘I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got, other than an old fuzzy photograph of her as a teenager. Do you recognise her?’
Mahmoot shook his head. ‘Nah.’
‘Take a good look. I think she was a hooker. Maybe worked in the porn business.’
‘Not with me. But she’s … well she’s not exactly looking her best in this photograph. Difficult to tell.’ Mahmoot went to hand the photograph back.
‘Keep it,’ Fabel said, ‘ask about a bit. It’s important.’
‘What was her name?’
‘That’s the thing, Mahmoot. Other than “Monique”, which we think is just some kind of professional name, she doesn’t have a name, a permanent address or even a history before the night she was killed. Except for one thing: she had a bullet wound on her upper right thigh. We reckon she got it sometime between five and ten years ago. Does that ring a bell?’
‘Sorry, Jan … but let me sniff around and see what I can find out. How was she killed?’
‘Someone decided to carry out an anatomy lesson on her. Sliced her open and scooped out her lungs.’
‘Fuck!’ Mahmoot’s shock was genuine. Fabel could never understand how Mahmoot managed to retain his intelligence and humanity, given the work he was involved in. ‘Is this the big case the papers have been going on about?’
‘’Fraid so,’ said Fabel. ‘This guy is our number-one priority. This has got serial written all over it. I’ve got to get to him before his appetite returns.’
‘I’ll do what I can. But you know I’ve got to be careful. My social circle isn’t exactly renowned for its civic-mindedness. If they thought I was working for the cops I’d end up on a morgue slab myself.’
‘I know – and I want you to be extra careful with this one …’
‘Why?’
‘There’s a lot going on in the background I don’t like. The BND is sniffing about all of a sudden … and the guy who owned the flat was ex-Mobiles Einsatz Kommando.’
Mahmoot gave a start. ‘Hans Klugmann?’
Fabel was surprised that Mahmoot knew the name. ‘You know him?’
‘Vaguely. Our paths have crossed, so to speak.’
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