JF05 - The Valkyrie Song (21 page)

Fabel opened his desk drawer and took out the sketch pad, laid it on his desktop and flipped it open. He stared at the empty, clean expanse of white paper and sighed. It always started this way. Fabel had used these sketch pads for fifteen years of murder investigations. Singles, multiples, serials. No one except Fabel ever saw these pads. For Fabel, this was a completely different exercise from the plotting of an investigation on an incident board. This exercise had nothing to do with a team effort: it was the externalisation of his thought processes. These clean pages would fill with names, times, places: all connected by a web of lines. Alongside them would be phrases, press cuttings, quotes from statements. And ideas: foul, dark ideas. Fabel remembered how once, when investigating a serial-murder case, he had come across the notebook of the killer: obsessively neat but tangled threads connecting; words underlined, scored out, circled, triple question-marked. It had chilled Fabel to the bone to see how similar the insane methodology of the killer was to his own.

Fabel took a marker and at the top of the page wrote in block capitals the name ANGEL, followed by three question marks. Then he noted, on opposite sides of the page, the names of the two St Pauli victims. Then, referring to the case files and his notebook, be began plotting out the key elements of the case. But as he did so, another case kept shouldering itself into his way: that of the dead Danish policeman. He tried to shake it clear of his mind: it wasn’t even a case yet, although Möller, the forensic pathologist at Butenfeld, had
grudgingly promised that the autopsy results would be available about lunchtime. He thought back to Karin Vestergaard and remembered that she had been beautiful, yet somehow he could not picture her face.

His reflections were interrupted by the arrival of Anna Wolff and Werner Meyer in his office. He closed over the sketch pad and put it back into his desk drawer, asking Anna and Werner to sit as he did so.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Where are we?’

‘I went to see Viola Dahlke’s husband,’ said Werner. ‘That was tough. Nice guy, ordinary family. Had no idea his wife had a secret life.’

‘I take it you didn’t enlighten him about the nature of that life?’

Werner frowned. ‘Give me some credit. But she sure has a lot of explaining to do. Anyway, her husband confirms that she was at home the night Westland was killed. I take it we can let her go.’

‘A spousal alibi isn’t enough in itself,’ said Fabel. ‘But we don’t have enough to go for an extension of detention. And anyway, I’m convinced both St Pauli killings are the work of the same person and we know for a fact that Viola Dahlke did not commit the second one.’

‘I’ve checked all the taxi drivers working St Pauli the night Lensch was killed – three of whom were women. None of them picked him up or remember him at a rank or trying to flag a taxi. So it looks like it was our woman.’

‘Almost like she was targeting Lensch or someone like him,’ said Fabel.

‘But that doesn’t make sense,’ said Anna. ‘Her choice of victims so far has been pretty diverse. Westland was a celebrity, a foreigner and in his fifties. Lensch was a nobody, a German national and in his early thirties. The only thing that I can see they shared was that they were both male and they both happened to be in the Kiez.’

‘Maybe that’s all she needed. But the whole thing with the taxi is odd. No one has a car that colour, especially an E-class Merc, unless they’re in the taxi business. This is a highly organised killer. Why go to all of that trouble and then pick a victim at random?’ Fabel sighed. ‘What about CCTV – anything?’

‘Not so far. I’ve got that rather hunky uniform from Davidwache going through it.’

‘Why?’ asked Fabel. ‘Shouldn’t you do that yourself?’

‘Listen, I’m not dodging out of anything. It’s just that Wangler has been on that beat for four years. He knows every inch of it, including where each camera is. That Mercedes must have been picked up somewhere on the way in or out. If anyone can find it and find it quickly, then it’s Wangler.’

‘Okay, okay.’ Fabel held up his hands defensively. ‘Did you check out Jürgen Mann?’ he asked, referring to the witness who had approached Carstens Kaminski.

‘Yep,’ said Anna. ‘He checks out. One conviction for cannabis possession; nothing else. He’s a dying breed, apparently.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘According to Wangler—’

‘Your new best chum,’ interrupted Werner.

‘I wish …’ Anna sighed. ‘Anyway, according to Wangler, there are fewer and fewer creeps like Mann in the Kiez these days. With all the CCTV in the Reeperbahn, even if it is supposed to be strategically sited, no one wants to be seen going into or coming out of a brothel these days. It’s all call girls, online escort agencies, that kind of stuff. Wangler says that, compared to the past, street girls are struggling for custom these days. Added to which there is a steady supply of trafficked women being brought into the unregulated prostitution business elsewhere in the city.’

‘Against their will, for the most part,’ said Fabel.

‘Maybe so, but when you’re a sleazeball paying for sex,’ said Anna, ‘you’re not the kind of person who cares if your chicken is free-range or battery, if you know what I mean. Anyway, there are fewer punters on the street. Nowadays the Kiez is full of the Armin Lensches of this world, getting pissed and getting into trouble. For what it’s worth, I think Mann was on the level. I think he genuinely believes he came face to face with the Angel. But again we’ve got no CCTV to back up his claim.’

‘Okay …’ Fabel paused and leaned back in his chair. ‘Listen, we have a guest. A colleague from Denmark. I’ve asked her to come into the Presidium this afternoon. I’d like you to talk to her, Anna. You too, Werner.’

‘A PR job?’ asked Anna. ‘Of course I will. After all, we all know that I’m a natural diplomat.’

‘That’s not why I’m asking you to talk to her, Anna. Her name is Karin Vestergaard and she’s a senior officer in the Danish National Police. More senior in rank than me.’

‘Is this to do with the Dane who died from a heart attack?’ asked Werner.

Anna exchanged a knowing glance with Fabel. ‘
Supposed
to have died from a heart attack,’ she said.

‘
Politidirektør
Vestergaard has exactly the same kind of suspicions that you did, Anna. And she has some evidence to base them on. I’d like you to talk to her because you picked up on the Jespersen death.’

‘So it was murder?’ asked Werner.

‘We’ll know by lunchtime, hopefully. If Möller does his job.’

‘Möller may be a wanker,’ said Werner. ‘But he’s one of the best pathologists I’ve ever worked with.’

‘Well, Frau Vestergaard was able to point us in a couple of specific directions. Listen, I don’t want to get into it all now but there’s all kinds of serious stuff going on in Jespersen’s background. And if the autopsy comes back with anything
suspicious, then Jespersen’s death becomes an active case. If he was murdered, then it’s a major investigation with all kinds of implications. The main thing is, Anna, it was your catch – a good catch.’

‘So what’s she like?’ asked Werner. ‘This Danish cop, I mean?’

‘Wear your gloves when you shake hands with her,’ said Fabel. ‘Otherwise you’ll get frostbite …’

‘You’re from the telly?’ The old woman smiled as she asked the question and Sylvie Achtenhagen wished that she hadn’t. Her ruined teeth looked as if they needed the attention of an archaeologist, rather than a dentist. ‘Is that what you said? You’re from the telly?’

‘That’s right … HanSat.’ Sylvie smiled sweetly, the way she’d learned to smile when she wanted information from someone. She cast her gaze beyond the broken-fence-edged square of waste ground. They were down by the harbour, on the southern edge of St Pauli. Across the Elbe, vast machines were hoisting containers from an armada of freight ships. The cold air rang with the rhythmic beeping of reversing cranes.

‘Never heard of it. Don’t have a telly.’ The old woman made a sweeping gesture with her arm – as sweeping a gesture as her countless layers of clothing would allow – taking in the broken paving, the smear of scrubby grass, the discarded bottles, a used condom. ‘I find it would ruin the ambience I’ve built up here.’ She chuckled at her own joke. ‘So you doin’ sommat about the Kiez? About them murders? This is where they found the last fella, y’know.’

‘Something like that. And yes, I know the latest victim was found here. That’s why I came to talk to you. Is this your usual spot?’

‘Coppers’ve asked me ’bout it already. They got a bee up their arses ’bout this ’un.’

‘Is this your usual spot?’ Sylvie repeated the question. Be patient. Smile. Offer money. ‘Listen, I can pay for information. Only if it’s good information, though. Is this your usual spot?’

‘This is my abode,’ the old woman announced grandly. ‘How much?’

‘That all depends. Do you sleep in a hostel?’

‘Sometimes. When it’s too cold. Sometimes I sleep here.’

‘There are better places than this, surely. I mean the State Social Office would help find you a place.’

‘Oh, I know …’ Another broken-toothed chuckle. ‘They offered me a villa in Blankenese, but I said it was too down-market for someone of my breeding.’

Sylvie shrugged. ‘Okay, you said the police talked to you. What did they want to know?’

‘They asked me if I saw anything the other night, when that fella was killed. I said I didn’t. It was too cold so I dossed down in the Red Cross hostel. But I was here drinking until about eleven. But didn’t see nothing. Then they asked me if I seen a taxi in the area. Driven by a woman.’

‘A taxi?’

‘Yeah. They said it might not’ve had a sign on it, though.’

‘Did they say why they were looking for a taxi?’

‘Yeah – the police always tell me them kind of things. Discuss cases. I’m like a special consultant.’

‘Listen, you can get smart or you can get money. Not both.’

The down-and-out shrugged her padded shoulders. ‘Just jokin’. No … they didn’t say why.’

‘Anything else?’

‘They showed me this picture. I suppose it was the guy what got killed. I never seen him before and I told them so.’

‘Did they give you a name for the dead man?’

‘No – they did say he was about thirty and not too tall.’

‘Anyone else doss down around here?’

‘No, it’s too far out for them. I sleep here ’cause I’m a woman. It ain’t safe elsewhere.’

Sylvie looked at the woman. She looked eighty but might only have been forty. A couple of years older than her. She wondered how a woman could end up in a situation like that; she imagined that the tramp had seen all kinds – experienced all kinds – of horrors. Sylvie handed the tramp a fifty-euro note.

‘Thanks …’ The tramp looked delighted with her bounty. Suddenly eager. ‘Listen, you come by tomorrow. I’ll ask some of the others if they’ve seen something.’

‘That would be good.’ Sylvie smiled. ‘You do that.’

Sylvie drove back into the Reeperbahn and parked near the taxi rank at Spielbudenplatz. Unlike the female down-and-out, the drivers waiting for fares or taking a break at the snack stand knew exactly who Sylvie was. They were keen to help, especially when she hinted that if she got anything worthwhile she’d return with a camera crew to get their statements on tape. The fact was, however, that they had nothing much to offer, although one or two had been very open about what the police had said to them.

From the scraps she had gathered, Sylvie was able to piece together that the guy who had been murdered had been picked up by an ivory-beige Mercedes E-class, but the police thought that it had probably been a fake taxi. That kind of planning, she thought to herself, was bordering on the professional. The drivers told her that they were all now looking out for the phoney cab and driver.

While she was at Spielbudenplatz, Sylvie thought it was worthwhile calling into Davidwache. When she asked the uniformed female officer behind the counter if she could speak to Herr Kaminski, she was told he was unavailable. All day.
Sylvie tried to wheedle some information from the desk officer but got nowhere.

When she got back to her car, her cellphone rang. It was Ivonne, her assistant, calling to tell her that the police had released an identity for the latest victim: Armin Lensch, twenty-nine, had worked for the NeuHansa Group.

‘God – that’s a bit close to home,’ said Sylvie. The NeuHansa Group was the company owned by Gina Brønsted, the Hamburg senator who was running for First Mayor. Through NeuHansa, Gina Brønsted had a finger in every pie in Hamburg worth having your finger in. One of those pies was HanSat TV, Sylvie’s employer. The rumour was that Brønsted had financed Andreas Knabbe’s start-up of HanSat.

‘Yep,’ said Ivonne. ‘Apparently Lensch worked for a subsidiary, Norivon. It’s NeuHansa’s environmental technologies division.’

‘Now that’s interesting …’ Sylvie sat in the car staring out through the windscreen but seeing nothing; instead her mind raced through a dozen possible connections. As well as being a successful politician, Gina Brønsted was a millionairess several times over. She was running for the office of Hamburg’s Principal Mayor, basically on the platform that she could run the city like a business. Having an employee of one of her companies linked to these murders, even as a victim, was not the kind of publicity she would want. ‘Ivonne, get me everything you can on the NeuHansa Group and Gina Brønsted. Get me a few names inside the company and find out if the dead guy was of any importance in the group. Have whatever you can lay your hands on emailed to my personal address or couriered over to my flat tonight. I’ll be back home from about eight.’