‘Well,’ said Anna, ‘that is something we have yet to establish.’
‘For God’s sake, I gave you full details of where I was that night …’ Lang walked over to a bureau by the door and opened a drawer. He turned back to the officers with something in each hand. ‘Here is my ticket stub for the exhibition I attended. See, it’s dated for that Thursday. And here …’ He gave the stub to Fabel. In his other hand was a pen and notebook. ‘Here are the names and telephone numbers
again
of the people who can and will confirm that they were with me that night.’
‘You came home about one, one-fifteen in the morning, you say?’ Fabel passed the stub to Anna.
‘Yes.’ Lang folded his arms defiantly, ‘We – I mean my friends and I – went for a meal afterwards. I’ve already given her’ – he nodded in Anna’s direction – ‘the name of the restaurant and the waiter who served us. We left the restaurant about a quarter to one.’
‘And you came home alone?’
‘Yes. Alone, Herr Fabel. So I can’t provide an alibi after that.’
‘That may be immaterial, Herr Lang,’ said Fabel. ‘All the indications are that Herr Hauser died between ten and midnight.’
Fabel thought he detected something disturb
Lang’s impassive expression, as if pinning a time to Hauser’s ordeal and death had made it more real.
‘Your relationship with Herr Hauser was not exclusive?’ asked Anna.
‘No. Not on Hans-Joachim’s side, anyway.’
‘Do you know of anyone else he might have been involved with?’
For a moment Lang looked confused. ‘What do you mean involved? Oh … oh, I see. No. Hans-Joachim had countless flings, but there was no one … well, I was his only
companion
.’
‘What did you think we meant when we asked you if he was
involved
with anyone else?’ asked Fabel.
‘Nothing, really. I just wasn’t sure if you meant privately or professionally. Or politically in Hans-Joachim’s case. It’s just that he was very, well,
strange
about his associations. He got a bit drunk one night and lectured me about not getting involved with the wrong group of people. About making the wrong choices.’
Fabel looked across to where Lang had replaced the book on the shelf. ‘Did Herr Hauser ever discuss the past with you? I mean his days as an activist, that kind of thing?’
‘Endlessly,’ Lang said wearily. ‘He would rant on about how his generation had saved Germany. How their actions back then shaped the society we live in now. He seemed to think that my generation, as he would put it, was screwing the whole thing up.’
‘But did he ever say anything about his activities? Or his associates?’
‘Oddly enough, no. The only person he tended to go on about was Bertholdt Müller-Voigt. You know, the Environment Senator. Hans-Joachim hated him with a vengeance. He used to say that
Müller-Voigt believed that he could be Chancellor one day, and that was what all this “Lady Macbeth” crap with First Mayor Schreiber’s wife was all about. Hans-Joachim said that Müller-Voigt and Hans Schreiber were cut from the same cloth. Shameless opportunists. He had known them both at university and had despised them even then – particularly Müller-Voigt.’
‘Did he ever discuss the allegations made against Müller-Voigt in the press by Ingrid Fischmann – all that stuff about the Wiedler kidnapping?’
‘No. Not with me, anyway.’
‘Did Herr Hauser have any contact with Müller-Voigt? Recently, I mean.’
Lang shrugged. ‘Not that I know of. I would have thought that Hans-Joachim would have gone out of his way to avoid him.’
Fabel nodded. He took a moment to process what Lang had told him. It did not add up to much. ‘You are probably aware that another man was killed in the same way, within twenty-four hours of Herr Hauser’s death. The man’s name was Dr Gunter Griebel. Does that name mean anything to you? Did Herr Hauser ever discuss a Dr Griebel?’
Lang shook his delicately sculpted head. ‘No. I can’t say that I ever heard him mention him.’
‘We spoke to the staff at The Firehouse,’ said Anna. ‘They told us that Herr Hauser was sometimes seen drinking and talking with an older man, about the same age as him. Would you have any idea who it might have been?’
‘Sorry. I wouldn’t,’ said Lang. ‘Listen, I’m not being obstructive or awkward or anything. It’s just that Hans-Joachim only included me in his life when it suited him. There’s practically nothing you could
tell me about him that would surprise me. He was a very, very secretive man … despite all his publicity-seeking. Sometimes I think that Hans-Joachim was hiding in plain sight – concealing himself behind his public persona. It was like there was something deep down inside that he didn’t want anyone to see.’
Fabel considered Lang’s words. What he had said about Hauser was true of Griebel, but in a different way.
‘We’re all like that,’ said Fabel. ‘To one degree or another.’
In the car on the way back to the Presidium, Fabel discussed Lang with his two junior officers.
‘I’ll double-check these details,’ said Anna. ‘But, to be honest, his alibi doesn’t put him entirely in the clear for Hauser’s death. If he had gone straight from the restaurant to Hauser’s apartment, and if we allow a margin of error in the estimated time of death, then he could just about have done it.’
‘It would be stretching the timeline pretty far,’ said Fabel. ‘Although I have to admit there’s something about Lang that bothers me. But the main thing that puts him out of the picture is the fact that your sequence of events just doesn’t fit with Schüler’s statement. He saw Hauser sitting with a guest who broadly fits Lang’s description somewhere between eleven and eleven-thirty; Lang’s alibi is solid for that time.’
Fabel dropped Henk and Anna back at the Presidium and drove home to Pöseldorf. Hamburg glowed in the dark warmth of the summer night. Something sat heavy in the back of Fabel’s mind, obscuring what this case was all about, but his tired
brain could not shift it out of the way. As he drove, he knew that he was dealing with a case that was growing cold on him. A lead-less case. And that meant he might not get a break in it until the killer struck again. Considering he had killed twice within a twenty-four-hour period, and had not struck since, it was entirely possible that the killer’s work was over.
And that he had got away with it.
As Fabel was driving home from the Police Presidium, Leonard Schüler was sitting in his one-bedroomed Grindelviertel apartment, counting his blessings. He had not been charged with anything. He had admitted to stealing the bike, to going out equipped to break into houses that night but, just as the older cop had said, they had not been interested in any of that. The older cop had really rattled Schüler with his talk of hanging him out as bait for the nutter who was scalping these guys. But even if Leonard had been scared, he had stayed smart: he knew not to give them any more than the absolute minimum. The reason the older cop’s threat had scared him so much was because Leonard had got a much better look at the guy in the apartment than he had admitted. And the guy in the apartment had got a good long look at Schüler.
It had been Schüler’s intention to break into the flat if there had been no one at home. He had planned his getaway with slightly more foresight than usual. Having prised open the lock on the bike, he had left it propped against the wall of the alley before slipping around to the courtyard. It
had not been too dark that night, but when Leonard had sneaked around to the back of the apartment the height of the buildings surrounding the yard had cast it into dark shadow. It had been a gift to a burglar, thought Schüler, but one of the occupiers had obviously been security conscious and a motion-sensitive security light had suddenly flooded the small courtyard with blazing light. Schüler had been temporarily dazzled and had taken a blind step forward. The recycling bins must have been too full because he had knocked over some bottles that had been set beside the bins, causing them to clatter loudly on the cobbles of the courtyard.
Schüler had taken a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the sudden bright light. It was then that he had seen the two men. They had clearly been disturbed from their conversation by Schüler’s clumsiness and had come to the window and looked out directly at him – he was only a metre and a half away. There had been an older guy, whom he now knew to have been Hauser, and a younger one. It had been the expression, or lack of it, on the face of the younger man that had really spooked Schüler. Even more so now, knowing as he did what this individual had gone on to commit.
He had looked into the dead, expressionless face of a killer.
Now, when Schüler thought back to that stare, to that dreadful calm on the face of a man who must have known what horrors he was about to perpetrate, it chilled him to the core.
The older cop, Fabel, had been right. He had described a monster who took people into hell before
they died. Schüler wanted no part of it. Whoever – whatever – this killer was, the police would never catch him.
Schüler was out of it now.
Fabel had been at his desk since seven-thirty. He had again gone through the BKA files that Ullrich had lent him and had taken out the sketch pad from his desk and plotted out as much as he could from the information at his disposal.
He phoned Bertholdt Müller-Voigt’s office. After he explained who he was, Fabel was told that the Environment Senator was working from home, which he often did, as yet another visible commitment to reducing his travel kilometres and therefore his impact on the environment. His secretary said she could, however, get right back to Fabel with an appointment for that day.
Fabel made another call. Henk Hermann had got Fabel the number for Ingrid Fischmann, the journalist.
‘Hello, Frau Fischmann? This is Principal Chief Commissar Jan Fabel of the Polizei Hamburg. I work for the Murder Commission, and I am currently investigating the murder of Hans-Joachim Hauser. I wondered if it would be possible to meet. I think you could help me with some background information …’
‘Oh … I see …’ The woman’s voice at the other end sounded a lot younger and lacked the authority that Fabel had somehow expected. ‘Okay … how about three p.m. at my office?’
‘That’s fine. Thank you, Frau Fischmann. I have the address.’
Within a few minutes of hanging up from Ingrid Fischmann, Bertholdt Müller-Voigt’s secretary phoned back saying that the Senator could fit Fabel in if he could make his way directly to Herr Müller-Voigt’s house. She gave Fabel an address near Stade in the Altes Land, outside Hamburg and on the south side of the Elbe. He doesn’t mind
me
clocking up the kilometres, thought Fabel as he hung up.
Müller-Voigt’s house was a huge modern home that had ‘expensive architect’ written in every angle and detail, and Fabel reflected on how the former left-wing environmentalist firebrand seemed to have embraced conspicuous consumption with great enthusiasm. As he approached the front door, however, Fabel noticed that what had appeared to be blue marble tiling along the whole front elevation was, in fact, a façade made up entirely of solar panels.
Müller-Voigt answered the door. As Fabel remembered him from Lex’s restaurant, he was a smallish but fit-looking man with broad shoulders and a tanned face broken by a broad, white-toothed smile.
‘Herr Chief Commissar, please … do come in.’
Fabel had heard of Müller-Voigt’s charm: his primary weapon, apparently, with women and political opponents alike. It was well known that he could turn it off whenever necessary. He could be an aggressive and highly outspoken opponent. The politician
showed Fabel into a vast living room with a pine-lined double-height vaulted ceiling. He offered Fabel a drink, which the detective declined.
‘What can I do for you, Herr Fabel?’ asked Müller-Voigt, sitting down on a large corner sofa and indicating that Fabel should do likewise.
‘I’m sure you’ve heard of the deaths of Hans-Joachim Hauser and Gunter Griebel?’ asked Fabel.
‘God, yes. Terrible, terrible business.’
‘You knew Herr Hauser rather well, I believe.’
‘Yes, I did. But not socially for years. Not so much at all recently, in fact. I would bump into Hans-Joachim at the occasional conference or action meeting. And, of course, I knew Gunter, too. Not so well, and I hadn’t seen him for an even longer time than Hans-Joachim, but I did know him.’
Fabel looked startled. ‘I’m sorry, Herr Müller-Voigt – did you say you knew
both
victims?’
‘Yes, of course I did. Is that strange?’
‘Well …’ said Fabel. ‘My entire purpose in coming here was to see if you could cast light on any possible connection between the two victims. A connection, I have to add, that so far we have been unable to establish. Now it looks like you are that link.’
‘I’m flattered that I seem so important to your investigation,’ said Müller-Voigt, smiling. ‘But I can assure you that I was not the only connection. They knew each other.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Absolutely. Gunter was a strange fellow. Tall and lanky and not much of a talker, but he was active in the student movement. It doesn’t surprise me that the connection didn’t appear on your radar, though. He dropped out of sight after a while. It was as if he lost interest in the movement. But he and Hans-Joachim
were both members of the Gaia Collective for a while. As was I.’
‘Oh?’
‘The Gaia Collective was a very short-lived phenomenon, I have to admit. A talking shop more than anything. I gave up on it when it became too …
esoteric
, I suppose you would say. The political objectivity got muddied with wacky philosophies – Paganism, that kind of thing. The Collective just sort of evaporated. That happened a lot back then.’
‘How well did Hauser and Griebel know each other?’ asked Fabel.
‘Oh, I don’t know. They weren’t friends or anything. Just through the Gaia Collective. They might have met outside, but I wouldn’t know about that. I know that Griebel was highly regarded for his intellect, but I have to say I always found him a very dull fellow. Very earnest and rather one-dimensional … like a lot of the people involved in the movement. And not particularly communicative.’