JF05 - The Valkyrie Song (23 page)

‘I appreciate that, Herr Doctor. I take it our suspicions were justified?’

‘Just like your less than charming Danish colleague suggested … By the way, do you know she got in touch with me directly and started to harangue me, telling me what I should be looking for?’

‘No, I didn’t,’ said Fabel, firing a look across the conference table at Vestergaard. ‘My apologies.’

‘Well, anyway,’ continued Möller. ‘Turns out she was right. I found a hypodermic puncture wound. What looks to me like a deliberately concealed hypodermic puncture wound. In his groin. I would have missed it if I hadn’t been looking for it specifically.’

‘So what was injected?’

‘We’ll have to wait for the full toxicology report, but on a hunch I tested a blood sample myself. I was looking for and found signs of hyperkalaemia.’

‘Which is?’

‘Elevated potassium levels. Whatever was injected pumped up the level of potassium in his system. That would cause hyperkalaemia, which, in turn, would cause arrhythmia and ultimately cardiac arrest. It could be a number of agents that caused this, or a combination of agents, but I’ve included tox screens for potassium chloride and suxamethonium chloride.’

‘Well, we can stop speculating,’ said Fabel after he had hung up the phone. ‘It looks like we are now cooperating on a murder enquiry, Frau Vestergaard.’

Ute Cranz examined herself in the mirror. It was like looking at a stranger.

She was tall and slim. Beneath the expensive clothes her body was lithe and sleek. She had spent a great many hours working on her body. Making it strong, supple, graceful. But she felt disconnected from it. Dislocated from the person who stared back at her, cold and blankly, from the glass.

As a little girl, Ute, like her sister, had excelled as a gymnast. She could have gone far – international competition – but her parents had not approved of what they saw as the abuse of her body. Enjoy your sport for what it is, her father had once told her, but don’t let them abuse your body, damage your health, for the sake of a falsehood. She hadn’t understood then, but she did now. She had seen what they had done to her sister. Margarethe had told her what they had done. Each visiting time a little more, a new horror.

They had stolen Margarethe’s life. What they had done to her was like rape. No, it was worse. They had destroyed her, taken away her humanity. Then, when it became clear to them that she wasn’t up to what they wanted, they cast her away.

Ute turned from the mirror and crossed the lounge to the window that looked down onto the street. No sign yet. She looked at her watch. A few more minutes. Crossing back to the mirror, she applied a little more make-up and pushed at her hair with her hands.

She had planned her costume carefully: it was dressy without looking too much for this time of afternoon on a Wednesday. And it was exactly at this time of afternoon on a Wednesday that Herr Gerdes came home. He lived in the top-floor apartment – the one with the roof terrace. Ute had established that Herr Gerdes lived alone, although she had no idea if he was divorced, a widower or a confirmed bachelor. He really was a quiet neighbour: the only sound she had ever heard issuing from his apartment was the music he listened to – Brahms and some Bruch, she thought – and she had only heard that occasionally when making her way up to her own apartment.

Ute laid her hand on the brass snib, eased the door open and listened. After a moment she heard the outer door downstairs slam shut and the sound of footsteps on the stairs. She stepped out onto the landing just as Herr Gerdes reached it.

‘Oh, hello, Frau Cranz,’ he said, and smiled. He was wearing a chunky polo-neck jumper under an expensive-looking tweed coat. He carried pale pigskin gloves in one hand. ‘It’s a cold one today. Are you going out?’

‘I’m glad I caught you, Herr Gerdes,’ she said formally and ignoring his question. ‘As you know I’ve not long moved into the apartment and I have a problem with the lease. I wondered if you could explain it to me.’

‘Well,’ he said, frowning. ‘I would love to, but at the moment …’

‘Oh no – not right now.’ She gestured an apology. ‘I wouldn’t impose on you at such short notice. I was thinking … well … I wondered if you would join me for a meal on Saturday
evening.’ There was a short silence and she rushed to fill it. ‘You see, I don’t get the chance to cook for anyone any more and I’ve got these fillets …’

He silenced her by taking a step towards her, his smile broadening. ‘Frau Cranz, I would be delighted.’

It had been a tiring day. Partly because he had had to spend so much of it with Karin Vestergaard. Fabel would never have imagined that spending time with a beautiful woman could be so tedious. She
was
beautiful, wasn’t she? He still found that if he were out of her presence for any length of time her face was almost impossible to recall. And Fabel was good at remembering faces: after all, he had made a career of it. He phoned Susanne from his office before he left, explaining that he had felt obliged to volunteer to pick up Vestergaard at eight and take her for a meal.

‘Please, please come along,’ he pleaded. ‘This woman is incredibly hard work and I need your support.’

‘I couldn’t possibly burden the taxpayer. You’ll be putting this all on expenses, I take it?’

‘You’re involved in the St Pauli investigation. It’s a legitimate expense. Vestergaard would be interested in how you work with the Commission. I’ll even pay myself.’

‘God, she must be hard work.’

‘I’m booking a table at the fish restaurant in Neumühlen – your favourite.’

‘I don’t think …’

‘Did I tell you that this particular Nordic ice maiden is also particularly beautiful? And there’ll just be the two of us if you don’t come …’

‘Okay – I’ll come and protect your honour. Pick me up at the apartment.’

Fabel was aware that he had become an object of envy. Every man in the restaurant turned in their direction as he, Susanne and Karin Vestergaard entered. The truth was, he got a kick out of being seen in the company of two such beautiful women. Seeing them together, Fabel was struck by how different they were: Susanne’s hair was raven black, her eyes a rich hazel and her skin, even in the middle of a Hamburg winter, had a hint of summer gold to it; in complete contrast, Karin Vestergaard’s hair was almost ash-blonde, her complexion light and her eyes a striking pale blue. The southern Celt and the Viking maiden.

Again Karin Vestergaard had done something different with her make-up and it had totally changed her look. Softened it. Susanne and Vestergaard chatted warmly as they sat at the table by the window. The restaurant deliberately kept its lighting subdued to allow diners to watch the silent ballet of vast container ships and other vessels drift past the huge picture windows that looked out over the Elbe. It was odd for Fabel to hear Susanne talk in English – he had only heard her say a few words in the language during their whole relationship. He noticed that even though Susanne could speak it well, her Bavarian accent was even more noticeable in this second language.

Susanne and Karin Vestergaard had hit it off as soon as they’d met and Fabel had felt a vague confusion at the way Vestergaard’s personality seemed to have changed totally. Not for the first time he felt completely lost when faced with the complexity of the female mind. He had seen this kind of thing before: women interacting with each other in a completely different way than they did with him. He had
seen
it before, but had never understood it: sitting there, it was as if he had been allowed admission to an exclusive club, only to find out he had been handed a limited day pass.

‘So you’ve been stuck with Jan for most of the day,’ said
Susanne. ‘You must need a drink.’ She beckoned the waiter over and they ordered a bottle of white wine.

‘He’s not so bad,’ said Vestergaard. She smiled at Fabel and he realised it was the first time she had done so. ‘Just takes a bit of getting used to.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Susanne arched an eyebrow and grinned knowingly. ‘How do you like Hamburg?’

‘I like it fine,’ Vestergaard said. ‘It’s odd, but it doesn’t feel that foreign. Like it’s a little bit Danish.’

‘You said yourself, earlier today,’ said Fabel, ‘when you were talking about Euroregions, that Hamburg had a Nordic element. Well, where we’re sitting right now is in Altona. Altona was a city in its own right until the nineteen-thirties when it became part of Hamburg under the Greater Hamburg Act. All of this was Danish soil for more than two hundred years. And Hamburg itself was jammed right up against the Danish border for most of its history.’

‘God, don’t get him started,’ Susanne said to Vestergaard. ‘Everything turns into a bloody history lesson. I know what you mean, Karin. I’m from the south. Bavaria. When I first came to Hamburg I felt it was very Scandinavian. Although they’re always banging on here about how English they all are. By the way, do you know what Jan’s nickname is?’

‘Oh, not that old chestnut,’ said Fabel. ‘Some people call me
der Englishe Kommissar
, because I’m half-British. Scottish, actually.’

Susanne laughed. ‘No, not that. I bet you don’t even know this one: Lord Gentleman.’

‘Who calls me that?’ Fabel looked accusingly at Susanne.

‘See?’ she said to Vestergaard. ‘Now he’s all offended. Do you know he buys all his stuff in the English shops in Hamburg? I used to think Harris Tweed was a romantic novelist until I met this one.’

Vestergaard laughed. ‘Actually, it’s funny,’ she said to
Fabel, ‘when I first met you I thought you looked like a Dane. But so do a lot of people here.’

‘Aha.’ Fabel pointed his fork in her direction. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. I get my blond hair from the Scottish side of the family.’

‘I thought they were all red-haired with big bushy beards and drunk half the time.’

‘That’s only the women,’ said Fabel.

‘I’ll tell your mother you said that …’ Susanne smiled.

‘How did you two get together?’ asked Vestergaard. ‘If you don’t mind me asking. Was it through work?’

‘We worked together on a case about four years ago. He pursued me more relentlessly than he did the killer.’

‘As I remember, you didn’t try very hard to escape.’ Fabel grinned and took a sip of his wine.

‘Doesn’t work get in the way? I mean, having a personal and a professional relationship?’ asked Vestergaard.

‘We try not to let it,’ said Fabel. ‘We used to have this rule that we didn’t talk shop outside work. We still pretty much keep to that. But, of course, there are times when you can’t help it. The other thing is that Susanne is only involved in a small percentage of the cases I investigate. Ones like this killer we’ve got on the loose in St Pauli.’

‘I think that’s what went wrong with Jens and me.’ Vestergaard stared blankly at the table as she spoke.

‘You and Jespersen?’ Fabel put his wine glass down. ‘You were involved? Oh God, I’m sorry. I had no idea.’

She smiled weakly. ‘We split up about four years ago. Like I said, Jens found it difficult to accept that my career had overtaken his. Everyone knows that Denmark is a very liberal country. Along with Sweden and Finland we score the highest in the world for gender equality. But statistics don’t take the Danish character into account. Jens was a Jutlander and a very old-fashioned Dane. Sometimes I think it just stung too much that I was a woman promoted over him.’

‘Didn’t that make working together awkward?’ asked Susanne. ‘I mean after the split?’

‘We were in separate divisions for a while. It was only last year that we started working together again. And yes, it was difficult. But that had more to do with the way Jens went about his job and his general attitude to authority.’

‘Jespersen seems to have been a little like Maria Klee,’ Fabel explained to Susanne.

‘Maria Klee?’ Vestergaard raised her eyebrows.

‘The officer I told you about,’ said Fabel. ‘The one who had a complete breakdown after going off on a personal crusade.’

There was a silence for a moment, only broken when the waiter arrived with their orders.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Vestergaard. ‘I’ve killed the mood somewhat.’ She raised her glass and forced a smile. ‘No more shop talk. Agreed?’

‘Agreed,’ said Susanne.

The conversation slowly found its way back to shallower waters and the inconsequentialities that people who don’t know each other that well tend to discuss. But, as they chatted, Fabel watched Karin Vestergaard. He thought back to the anger she had shown when she saw Jespersen’s body at the mortuary. Anger directed at her dead colleague. Her dead ex-lover. He was beginning to understand the Danish detective a little better. So why did it give him a bad feeling?

There were things Fabel enjoyed about his job. And there were things he hated.

Leading a Murder Commission was a management task, bureaucratic and demanding a certain meticulousness: Fabel was not a natural bureaucrat nor naturally meticulous, or at least not when it came to paperwork. He had started the
day off by getting Werner into his office. Werner’s heavy build and tough-looking appearance seemed at odds with what Fabel often thought of as a watchmaker’s mind within. Over the years, Fabel had learned to rely on Werner’s attention to detail and whenever he was thinking about allocating tasks to the team he called on his deputy’s counsel. Fabel had asked for, and got, extra resources to investigate the St Pauli killings while running an inquiry into Jespersen’s death. Technically, Fabel was supposed to manage the inquiries in parallel: assigning a team to run each while he directed them remotely. Oversight or overview or whatever the hell they liked to call it. Fabel didn’t like working that way. He believed a senior investigating officer should do just that: investigate. But the Polizei Hamburg, as Sylvie Achtenhagen was wont to point out any time someone aimed a TV camera at her, had screwed up the original Angel investigation. It was his job to make sure that there was a cross on every ‘t’; a dot above every ‘i’.