JF05 - The Valkyrie Song (29 page)

‘So maybe Drescher has a friend in here?’

Wengert shrugged. ‘Who knows? Sorry I can’t be of more help.’

‘What about the other names I gave you?’

‘Well, unless it is related to your personal file, if you have one here, or unless it is demonstrably in the public interest, I’m not supposed to release that kind of information.’

‘Herr Wengert …’ Sylvie smiled at the official and watched him melt. Men were so easy to manipulate. ‘Would I be right in saying that you were one of the civil-rights activists who stormed the Lichtenberg Bastille?’

Wengert beamed with pride. ‘Yes. I was.’

‘Then you are clearly a man who stands up for what is right. Who cares about the truth. And you’ve said yourself, this place is probably lousy with ex-Stasi scum. How can we get to the truth if we play by the rules and they don’t? I promise you that the people on the list I sent you are not the ones I want to expose. I just want to talk to them, that’s all. But they may lead me to Drescher. And he is someone we should care about. I am not asking for you to compromise your ethics, Herr Wengert. I’m asking you to stand by them.’

Wengert stared at Sylvie, an inner struggle obviously going on behind his dull eyes. He stood up, decisively.

‘Wait here a moment, please,’ he said, and left the room.

Fabel had left Vestergaard at her hotel to freshen up. He had promised her that he would let her know as soon as they ascertained where Jespersen had eaten lunch or if they had uncovered any sightings of a tail from the airport. He felt he was making progress, but the idea that it could all be a wild-goose chase continued to haunt him.

He was on his way back into the office when Anna phoned.

‘I’ve had a call,’ she said, ‘from a bright-as-a-button, all-eager-as-hell Commissar based down at Commissariat Twelve in Klingberg. She’s keen to speak to you. I said you would ring her back, but seeing as you’re in the area …’

‘What’s it about?’

‘A suicide. It looks straightforward and he left a note. Took a dive and landed on his face. From what she said this guy really does have eyes in the back of his head—’

‘Anna …’ Fabel injected a warning tone into his voice.

‘Anyway, she’s got in touch because she thinks something’s a bit off about the whole thing. She admits her feeling is groundless but she wanted to talk to you about it.’

‘She asked for me particularly?’

‘I think she’s after my job. Her timing’s impeccable.’

Fabel let the jibe pass. ‘Is she on duty now?’

‘Yep. I thought I’d let you know because of this Valkyrie thing. You know, any death that there could be any doubt about.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Iris Schmale. I’m guessing all that schoolgirl exuberance will make her easy to recognise.’

* * *

Police Commissariat 12, Klingberg, was less well known than Davidwache but architecturally it was probably even more impressive. One of Hamburg’s most famous landmarks was the Chilehaus, in the city’s Kontorhaus Quarter. The Chilehaus, as almost every Hamburg tour guide would tell visitors, was designed to resemble the sharp-edged prow of a ship. The Klingberg police station had been built in 1906 into the flank of the Chilehaus complex. It was, in itself, a magnificent piece of brickwork.

Fabel suppressed a grin when Criminal Commissar Iris Schmale greeted him in the main office. She was exactly as Anna had imagined her: young, fresh-faced and bubbling with enthusiasm. She had rebellious, vibrant red hair tied back into a long ponytail and her pale complexion was clustered with freckles. It gave her a girlish look.

‘I believe you have a suicide that smells fishy,’ said Fabel.

‘I do, Herr Principal Chief Commissar. The dead man’s name was Peter Claasens. He owned and ran a shipping agency on the edge of the Kontorhaus Quarter. From what I can see he had everything going for him. Wife, kids, highly successful business.’

‘Lots of people with families and successful businesses commit suicide every day,’ said Fabel. ‘And I believe the deceased left a note.’

‘Exactly!’ said Schmale. Fabel failed to suppress a grin at her vehemence. ‘That’s exactly it. There’s something about the suicide note that’s …’ She frowned as she sought the right word. ‘Ambiguous.’

‘Do you have it here?’

She handed him a sheet of paper. ‘This is a photocopy. The note was found several metres from the body. No blood on it. The only fingerprints were those of the deceased.’

Fabel began reading the note out loud. ‘“Dear Marianne …”’ He raised an eyebrow at Schmale.

‘Wife.’

‘“Dear Marianne, I am sorry I have to do this, and I know that, right at this moment, you are angry with me, but I need you to understand that there is no other way forward for me to go. It is tough to leave you and the kids behind, but it is better for me to go. I have made sure you will all be provided for and I don’t want you to think ill of me for making the only decision I could make. This is my decision and I want you to know that no one else played a part in it. I’m sorry I won’t be around every day to see the kids grow up, but I just couldn’t go on the way things were. I know you understand. Goodbye … Peter.”’ Fabel handed the sheet back to Schmale. ‘Have you spoken to the wife?’

‘Of course. I know that bereaved families often find the idea of suicide difficult to accept, but Marianne Claasens just simply refuses to believe that he committed suicide. And she doesn’t strike me as a woman overwhelmed by the shock of it all. She’s not in denial – she really is certain that her husband did not kill himself. And that note …’

‘What about it?’

‘Well, it could mean anything. I tried to imagine it out of context – that it hadn’t been found at the scene of a suicide. And to me it reads more like someone who’s
leaving
his wife, not killing himself: “
I want you to know that no one else played a part in it
.” How could anyone else play a part in his suicide? That sounds to me like he was about to clear off with someone else and wanted to keep her name out of it.’

Fabel thought about what Schmale had said and as he did so she watched him urgently, like the accused waiting for the judge’s verdict.

‘That was good thinking,’ he said and smiled. ‘About viewing the note in a neutral context. But if this isn’t suicide, then it’s murder. And if, as you suspect, he was about to leave his wife, that makes her the prime suspect. Have you checked her out?’

‘Yes, Herr Principal Chief Commissar. She was nowhere
near Claasens’s office. And she has a dozen witnesses to prove it. She was at some function at the St Georg Hospital. She’s a consultant there. Oncologist.’

‘And Claasens?’

‘As I said, he was a shipping agent. He had his own business arranging export/import traffic for major Hamburg-based concerns. He specialised in the Far East.’

‘Any suspicious involvements?’

‘Not in his business dealings. He seems to have been one of Hamburg’s most respected businessmen. And he had political ambitions too, apparently. Was thinking about running for the Hamburg Senate. That’s the other thing: suicides don’t tend to plan their futures.’

‘You said there was nothing suspicious in his business dealings. Was there something in his private life?’

‘From what I can gather, Claasens was a bit of a ladies’ man. Another reason why I would read a different interpretation into that note.’

‘Let me see it again …’ Fabel read through it once more. ‘Okay, I think you may have something. I’ll put a team on the case to work with you.’

Fabel left the Klingberg Commissariat and Iris Schmale standing grinning as if she’d won the lottery. She was a smart kid, that was for sure, but, on the face of it, there was nothing to suggest that there was any more to Claasens’s death than what it seemed to be: a burnt-out exec taking a dive from his office building. But, walking back to his car as the winter sky glowered down on the Kontorhaus Quarter, Fabel knew the feeling in his gut was the same nagging that Iris Schmale had felt. A policeman’s instinct. It was getting dark already. He checked his watch and, knowing she would be home from school, he decided to phone Gabi.

‘What’s up, Dad?’ Fabel’s daughter habitually used the
English term. It wouldn’t have sounded right for her to call him anything else.

‘You free for a coffee?’

‘What, now?’

‘I could meet you at about six. We could get something to eat. That’s if your mother doesn’t mind.’

‘She’s working late. I’ll leave a note. Usual place in the Arkaden?’

‘Usual place. See you then.’

Fabel sat in the café, looking out towards the Alster. It was too dark now to see the swans gliding across its winter shield of dark water; instead his own reflection stared back at him. He thought he looked tired. And older. The grey had started to insinuate itself into the blond of his hair and the wrinkles were deepening around his eyes.

He sat and sipped the tea he had ordered and waited for Gabi to arrive.

A huddle of young women, barely more than girls, sat two tables away. Students, from the look of them. There were five of them and they laughed and joked in the careless way that only the young seem able to. Fabel found himself envious of an as yet unjaded, unmuted enthusiasm for life that he had felt himself. Once.

His phone rang. It was Anna Wolff.

‘The teddy bear that Jespersen bought,’ she said. ‘It was bought from a shop in the Hanseviertel. I’ve spoken to them, but the name Jespersen doesn’t ring any bells. But that doesn’t really mean anything – they have so many customers passing through, a lot of them tourists and foreigners. One thing we do know, though, is that he paid cash. There’s no record of him using his credit card.’

‘Maybe he got it somewhere else,’ said Fabel.

‘Nope – the store had them on special order. Picked the jumper design themselves. This is the only place that sells them.’

‘The Hanseviertel …’ Fabel muttered.

‘What?’

‘Jespersen probably had lunch in the Hanseviertel. Check which restaurants and cafés have CCTV and get the tapes for lunchtime that day.’

‘Yes,
Chef
,’ sighed Anna. Fabel let it go.

‘Anything on the tapes from the Reeperbahn? Have we got a picture of the fake taxi yet?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Well, chase them up, for God’s sake. It’s the only lead we’ve got.’

After he hung up, Fabel turned back to the window to watch for Gabi arriving and only looked in the girls’ direction when they started to leave. It was the last girl he noticed. Their eyes met and recognition registered in hers. She was wearing a grungy black jacket and was hatless, her fair hair gathered roughly into a ponytail. Fabel smiled faintly at her, knowing he should know her but unable to place her. She looked away in that swift but casual manner, as if she hadn’t seen him, that every policeman recognises as an effort not to be noticed.

It was only after the girls had disappeared around the corner into Poststrasse that Fabel realised the girl was Christa Eisel, the young prostitute who had found Jake Westland dying behind Herbertstrasse. There was something about the realisation that depressed Fabel. It was as if he had been unable to recognise her because he had seen her in an appropriate context. She had been where she should be: with friends of her own age, talking and laughing about life. He wondered how many of her friends knew about her other life. Maybe that was it. Maybe everybody has a double life: another face for another context.

‘
What’s up, Pops?
’

Fabel was taken aback as Gabi, who had spoken in English, dropped into the seat opposite him. He leaned over and kissed his daughter and then, smiling, let his hand rest for a moment on her cheek.

‘You okay, Dad?’ There was concern in Gabi’s voice.

‘I’m fine, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘It’s just that it’s good to see you. It’s always good to see you … Have I ever told you how proud I am of the way you’re turning out?’

‘All the time, Dad. Is this you softening me up for the big lecture?’

The waitress came over and they placed their order.

‘Your mother told you what I wanted to talk to you about?’ he asked after the waitress had gone.

‘Kind of. Or what she wants you to talk to me about.’ Gabi pushed at a small deposit of spilt salt, pushing it into a pile. ‘She wants you to talk me out of a police career.’

‘Well, I thought you knew me better than that,’ Fabel said indignantly. ‘And your mother should, too. And one thing I know for sure is that I could never talk you into or out of anything.’

‘Sorry, Dad.’

‘But I do want to discuss it with you. If it’s what you really want, then I’m with you all the way. But I do want you to know what you’re getting into.’

‘The truth is – but don’t tell Mum this – that I’ve not made up my mind. I’m just thinking about it, that’s all. What I want to do is study law and jurisprudence first. Maybe criminology. Then see.’

‘That’s a good plan, Gabi. Keep your options open.’

‘How would you feel if I joined the police?’ Gabi looked at Fabel earnestly and for a moment he remembered the serious little face she had always put on when she had been little if concentrating.