As they approached, Fabel saw a tall grey-haired man wearing a long dark blue overcoat slip through the baffle screens. Everything about the man spoke of him being well-off, respectable. Fabel imagined the life of this stranger: an unsuspecting wife at home, children. Grandchildren probably. He was maybe even a respected figure. Someone whom others looked up to. There was something about the man’s furtive sidestep into sleaze that thoroughly depressed Fabel.
They walked along Erichstrasse, passing the occasional illuminated window and ignoring the tapping on the glass and beckoning gestures of the prostitutes.
‘Ah …’ Werner sighed sarcastically. ‘The siren call of a two-minute knee-trembler … I mean, would you ever consider …?’ He jerked a thumb in the direction of the last window they had passed.
‘You’re joking, right?’ said Fabel.
‘Some men – a lot of men – go in for it. Complication-free sex, I suppose.’
‘Unless you consider picking up a disease a complication. I hate the way the Reeperbahn is painted as “naughty but nice”. A tourist attraction. The truth is it’s cheap and nasty and sordid.’
‘Granted. But it’s here. And here to stay.’
‘Everybody keeps telling me that,’ said Fabel. ‘But I’m not so sure, Werner.’
When they reached the crime scene they found that there were still two uniforms on duty and a single forensic technician in a white bunny suit was still working the site. Fabel held up his Polizei Hamburg ID and one of the uniforms lifted the tape.
‘Is there anywhere you don’t want us to walk?’ Fabel called over to the technician.
The technician stood up and Fabel saw it was Astrid Bremer. Astrid had replaced Frank Grueber to become Holger Brauner’s deputy two years ago. She had the hood of her forensic suit pulled up over her hair and its elasticated edge turned the oval of her face into a pretty, almost childlike mask.
‘Nope …’ she said. ‘You’re okay. We finished processing the scene an hour ago.’
‘So why are you still here?’ asked Werner.
Astrid shrugged. ‘My mother always said I was a stubborn child. I just thought we were missing something. It was winding me up.’
‘And were you missing something?’ asked Fabel.
‘The killer knew what she was doing,’ said Astrid, ‘but it’s difficult for any human being not to leave some trace somewhere of their presence. I reckon she stepped back into the shadows over there by the tree. We didn’t quite get a footprint, but the heel of her boot sank into the earth at the bottom of the tree. From that we might be able to get a rough indication of her weight. That started me thinking about her height. There’s only one hundred and forty-two centimetres
of clearance between the bottom of the tree and the first branches. Unless she was a midget, she would have had to duck in to keep concealed without getting tangled in the branches.’ Astrid grinned and held out a plastic evidence bag.
The bag looked empty to Fabel until he stepped out into the street and held it up against the street light.
‘A single strand,’ said Astrid. ‘It’s maybe not connected to the killing, but given where I found it I think that’s very unlikely. I would say your killer is a blonde. And we have her DNA.’
The Altona Balkon – the ‘Altona Balcony’ – is a plateau of parkland elevated thirty metres above the River Elbe and fringed with a bench-lined boulevard. The Balcony affords one of the finest views of Hamburg, all along the Elbe to the Kohlbrandbrücke, making it a favourite spot not just for the people of Altona but for those from all over Hamburg.
A still-handsome man of about sixty, his coat collar turned up against the cold, sat on a bench at the edge of the snow-dusted Balkon and watched the distant activity of the ships and tugs, loaders and cranes in the container harbours. Above him the sky was a pale winter blue and behind him the low sun sparkled gold through the naked branches of the trees. It was a peaceful moment: a moment in which he realised how little peace he had enjoyed over the last twenty years.
A woman with a dog walked past, followed by three teenage boys on skateboards thundering along the rock-salted footpath, their breath fuming in the cold air. Then peace again.
‘Hello, Uncle Georg.’ A young woman in her thirties, expensively dressed and tastefully made-up, sat down beside him and kissed him on the cheek. She laid her handbag and a copy of
Muliebritas
magazine across her lap and placed a carrier bag on the bench beside her.
‘You know, it wasn’t all bad,’ he said as if she had been beside him all the while. ‘Back home. Back then, I mean.’
‘No, Uncle Georg, I suppose it wasn’t.’
‘I mean, I did believe in what we stood for. What we did. There were things that were better then. People cared for each other more. We had a sense of community. Of society. Whatever dreadful things we had to do, we did them for the greater good of the people, of the world.’
She rested a gloved hand on his arm. ‘I know you did. What’s wrong, uncle?’
‘And sometimes … well, sometimes I look at the way we live now and think we maybe had it more right than everybody says we did. It wasn’t what we believed in that forced us to do these things. It was a war. A cold war, maybe, but it was still a war.’ He stopped and smiled at her. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. Just an old man ranting.’
‘Are you sure that’s all that’s wrong?’
‘I thought …’ He frowned, his gaze out across the Elbe river. ‘It’s nothing. It was just I got the feeling that I was being watched or followed. Instinct. More like paranoia.’
‘Are you sure there wasn’t more to it? Maybe you
were
being followed,’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘No one’s that good. I used all the old tricks and checks. Like I said, paranoia.’
‘I got you a present,’ she said and handed him the carrier bag.
He looked into it and smiled. ‘
Rondo Melange
…’
She smiled too. ‘They started making it again. Like you say, not everything from back then was bad.’
‘But I suppose they make it for a profit now. Everything that was done then for the good of the people is now done for a profit. Like us. Like the way we’ve turned what we do into a business. All for money now.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘I’m an entrepreneur.’
‘To be honest, Uncle Georg, most of my life has been since,
not before. Almost all of my meetings have taken place since the Wall came down. And we’ve done well out of them, haven’t we?’
‘Yes, my child.’ He turned to her and smiled sadly. ‘But the things I taught you and your sisters. All those terrible things.’
‘It’s our business, uncle. It’s what we do. What we are.’
He nodded. ‘Did you see the media coverage of the St Pauli killing?’
‘Yes … they’re talking about it being the Angel again.’
‘What about the forthcoming meetings – is everything going to plan?’
‘Yes, uncle. Everything is going well.’
‘Will the Hamburg one look like an accident?’
‘Suicide. The meeting will be as the brief required.’
‘What about the big one? You clear on everything?’
‘Not a problem. It will actually be easier. No need to disguise it. I’m going to use the Sako TRG-21.’
‘Is it okay over that distance?’
‘Perfect. And anyway, I’m comfortable with it. And that new suppressor works well. It doesn’t just muffle, it distorts any report and sends scanners looking in the wrong direction for the shooter. But in a remote location like that, it won’t be an issue anyway. If the intel is correct, he’ll be alone.’
‘You’ll have to get out quick. Back across the border, I mean.’
‘I always do, Uncle Georg.’
‘That suppressor is the last new bit of kit I can get you. It increases our exposure risk every time I acquire new equipment. Our client sourced it for me and I don’t like getting them involved. I’ve got no control over the supply chain and we could be lumbered with traceable gear.’
‘I understand. Do you have the details for the other meetings?’
He handed her a data stick. ‘I can’t get used to this technology. I feel like I’m living in the future and I don’t belong in it. All that information, stored on something so insignificant. If we’d had these back then we’d have been able to destroy all our files before the rabble got their hands on them.’ He sighed. ‘You never ask. Why do you never ask?’
‘Ask what?’
‘Why they have to die. Are you never curious?’
‘You taught us not to be. It’s none of my concern. My job is to complete the meeting. Sure, sometimes when I’m preparing … watching them … it’s like seeing into their lives and I sometimes wonder why this person has to be ended. But not much. I just do my job.’ She ran her hand through his grey hair. ‘You worry too much, Uncle Georg. Remember how you taught us to take every moment of pleasure we could? To enjoy the time in between meetings?’
‘Yes. I do remember. Do you enjoy your life?’
‘I enjoy everything this life gives me. I’ve got you to thank for that.’
‘But the killing …’
She smiled, but looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was within earshot.
‘We all die. I learned that from you. We all die alone and many of us die in pain and fear. Terrifying diseases. Horrific injuries. Lingering deaths. All my meetings are ended quickly and the target has little idea what’s happening to them. Sometimes no idea: not even an instant of fear or pain. And, for all you or I know, I could be saving them from great future agony and anguish. That’s the way you trained me. I don’t feel bad about what I do; you told me not to feel bad about it.’
‘Even though we’re doing it for money now?’
‘The fact that we’re doing this for ourselves instead of for the state isn’t our fault. They changed the world around us. We are what we are, you and I. Just like everybody else who
was cut adrift when the Wall came down. Try not to worry so much.’ She placed the data stick in her handbag and kissed him on the cheek again. ‘Goodbye, Uncle Georg.’
‘There’s one more thing,’ he said, halting her as she rose from the seat. ‘We may have to arrange another meeting. Not for a client.’
‘Oh?’ she said. ‘We’ve never done a non-paying job before.’
‘This is a self-protection thing. Someone is beginning to ask too many questions in the right places. A policeman. And he’s maybe getting a little too close to home. We may need to deal with it. Discreetly.’
‘When?’
‘I’ll let you know. It may come to nothing. Goodbye, my child.’
‘Goodbye, Uncle Georg.’
After she left, he remained on the bench, fists rammed into his coat pockets, his collar turned up against the cold, and tried to recapture that moment of peace. But he couldn’t.
Fabel drove into the Police Presidium in Hamburg-Alsterdorf at ten-thirty a.m. He had only managed to get five hours’ sleep and felt leaden and dull. He spent the rest of the morning preparing for the team briefing. His weariness suddenly intensified when he was intercepted in the lift by Criminal Director Horst van Heiden.
‘A word, Jan …’ Van Heiden pressed the button for the fifth storey, the top-brass floor, signalling that the word was formal.
Fabel followed van Heiden into his office and sat down. When van Heiden sat down on the executive leather chair behind his desk, he straightened his tie and adjusted a notebook and pen on his desk. When the order of his bureaucratic universe was once more restored, he began.
‘I just wanted to catch up with a couple of things. Are you okay for this conference on violence against women? I’ve had the organiser on the phone again. I think she’s worried that we’ll send someone junior.’
‘It may come to that, if I’m honest.’
‘This murder last night?’ asked van Heiden.
‘I take it that was one of the things you wanted to talk to me about …’ Fabel failed to keep the weariness from his voice.
‘It’s all over the media,’ said van Heiden. ‘And there are some elements who blame us for not catching the Angel the first time round. If that is indeed who we’re dealing with.’
‘That I don’t know, Horst. I actually think it’s very unlikely. The modus is totally different. But I’m digging out all the old files. Obviously, it wasn’t my case the first time around.’
‘Mmm …’ Van Heiden again nudged the silver pen a fraction of a degree. ‘That’s the thing … I’ll be quite frank about this, Jan, we are getting a lot of funding from the BKA for you to set up this Super Murder Commission.’ The BKA was the Bundeskriminalamt, the Federal Crime Bureau. ‘It’s quite an accolade for the Polizei Hamburg to have a unit that will have a republic-wide brief. Within legal restraints, I mean,’ van Heiden continued. ‘As I’ve said to you before, it is an opportunity for us to establish ourselves as the centre of excellence in investigating complex and multiple murders in much the same way as the Institute for Judicial Medicine at Eppendorf is seen as the centre of excellence in forensic science.’
‘But …?’ Fabel raised an eyebrow. Van Heiden was beginning to sound like a commercial. And he always did a commercial before he hit you with the punchline.
‘But I do not delude myself that the reputation that has won us this accolade is a collective one. It’s yours, Jan. You’re the one everyone thinks of as Germany’s leading expert on complex and multiple murder cases.’