JF05 - The Valkyrie Song (30 page)

‘Like I said, Gabi, it’s your decision.’

‘That’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking what you would think.’

For a moment Fabel sat and stared past Gabi and in the direction that Christa Eisel had taken. A girl just a few years older than his daughter.

‘I think there are worse paths to take. Much worse. But I won’t pretend I wouldn’t worry about you.’

‘The danger?’

‘There is physical danger, that’s true. But there’s psychological danger too. Some of the things you see. Some of the people you deal with. It’s a whole new dimension of life that you wouldn’t come across normally.’

‘
You
deal with it.’

‘Not as well as I should, if I’m totally honest. That’s why I nearly chucked it all in last year.’

‘But you see, Dad, I didn’t know that. You have
never
spoken to me about your work.’

‘I’m sorry. Maybe I should have. But the truth is most of police work is boring or depressing. Take my job. It’s one of the top jobs you can have in the police and because of all of the stuff you read and see on the TV, you’d think it was exciting and glamorous. Believe me, it’s not. Ninety-nine per cent …
more
than ninety-nine per cent of the murders I deal with are committed by people of low IQ, fuelled by drink or drugs, in seedy or squalid surroundings. The truth is that murder is vulgar. The vast majority of crime is. There are very few criminal masterminds or genius serial killers out there. Most of the time you end up with someone sitting across the table from you who is, in many ways, just another victim of their own crime. They sit there, probably only just sobered up, confused and wondering how the hell they ended up in the position they’re in.’

‘But not always, surely?’

‘No … not always. Then you get the sociopaths, the rapists, the drug dealers, the career criminals who have killed or
maimed purely for personal gratification or gain. But again, Gabi, it’s not the way you see it on the TV. These are the dregs of society.’

‘I think I have a more sophisticated perspective than you seem to think, Dad. I live in the real world. I don’t get my ideas from the TV.’

‘Fair enough.’ Fabel smiled at his daughter. ‘I know you’re a bright kid, but it’s important that you know just what it is you’re getting yourself into. It’s a job that gets to you. No matter how hard or tough you think you are, something, somewhere along the way, will get to you.’

‘Are you talking about me or are you talking about Maria Klee? I know what happened to her. Is that what you’re worried about? Tell me, Dad, and I want you to be totally honest: would you be having this talk with me if I were your son and not your daughter?’

‘Yes. Absolutely. That has nothing to do with it. This is all to do with who you are, not what gender you are. Some people are cut out for the job, others aren’t.’

‘Do you think I am?’ Gabi asked, with more than a touch of defiance. At that moment, Fabel saw a hint of Renate’s fieriness in his daughter’s eyes.

‘I don’t know,’ said Fabel. ‘I really mean that. Even after all these years, I sometimes doubt that
I
am. I just want you to keep as open a mind as you can about your future.’ He paused for a moment, unsure whether to commit his next thought to words. ‘I’ve never said anything bad about your mother, you know that, don’t you?’

‘I know. I also know that you had good reason to but never did,’ Gabi said, her expression sad.

‘I’m not going to start now, Gabi, but I do want you not to let her sway you from whatever course you pick for yourself. Me neither. It’s up to you, and I know that your mother can be a little …’

‘Bitter?’ Gabi finished the thought for him. ‘The truth is
it didn’t take her long to realise the mistake she had made. Ludiger never did match up to you for her. Despite all of his charm, he turned out to be a creep.’

‘I never did get the story about why they broke up. I’m guessing it was another woman?’

Gabi didn’t answer right away. ‘Didn’t you know, Dad? He knocked her about.’

‘Hit her?’

‘Not often. And not so badly that it would show. But once is too often.’

Fabel gazed at Gabi. ‘I had no idea …’ His expression suddenly darkened. ‘He never laid a hand on you, did he? If he did …’

Gabi held her hand up. ‘Take it easy, Dad. No, he didn’t. Trust me. He would only have got to try it once.’

‘The bastard.’ Fabel shook his head in disbelief. ‘I mean, Renate … I would never have imagined her as a battered wife …’

‘Now, given everything you’ve just been telling me about police work, I think that’s a pretty naive thing for a policeman to say. You should know that you can never tell a victim of domestic violence by their appearance.’

‘You say it didn’t happen that often?’

‘I think it followed the usual pattern. He started to get violent more, for less provocation. I think Mum took the attitude that she had made her own bed so she’d have to lie in it. But eventually she decided to throw him out.’

‘Did you ever see him hit her?’

‘Oh, no – he was very careful about that. I didn’t know about it until Mum told me, after it was all over. She told me then that she wished she’d never split up with you; that when you and she were married it would never have crossed her mind that you could hit her.’

‘Shit,’ said Fabel. ‘I had no idea …’

‘Well, maybe you can understand a little better now why she’s always on your case.’

The waitress returned with their meal. As they ate, they fell into a more general conversation about school, friends, how things were going at home. Fabel always enjoyed his daughter’s company and he was glad to move on to lighter topics. But all the time he thought about his ex-wife Renate. How strong-willed and independent-spirited she had always been and how degrading it must have been for her to have been assaulted by Behrens in her own house.

The thought darkened his mood and he found himself also thinking about the brief look that he had exchanged with strong-willed, independent-spirited Christa Eisel. And every time he thought of her, it gave him a bad feeling.

Ute Cranz looked at her watch before casting one final glance over the carefully arranged table. Robert Gerdes would arrive in the next few minutes. Everything was ready: the table set, each course of the meal scheduled for readiness at exactly the right time. And the kitchen. Everything in the kitchen was prepared.

She walked across to the full-length mirror in the hall, by the door. Her deep auburn hair was gathered up, her lipstick and make-up were perfectly done. She was wearing a simple but expensive deep green dress that had a sharkskin lustre to it. For a moment she worried that it made her look reptilian, then laughed at her own insecurity: the dress’s colour and sheen simply complemented and highlighted the rich copper tones in her hair. She smoothed the dress over her hips and thighs. She looked great.

If Ute needed confirmation, she got it when Gerdes arrived, exactly on time.

‘Frau Cranz,’ he said when she opened the door to admit him, ‘you look … radiant.’ His eyes scanned her figure before settling on her face. His eyes were smiling. Knowing. ‘I brought
these …’ He held up a large manila envelope. ‘These are the details of the lease. I’m sure yours are the same.’

Taking the envelope and placing it on the hall table, she picked up the glass she had left waiting there for his arrival. She smiled and handed it to him.

‘A little Prosecco … I thought it would be nice.’

‘Are you not joining me?’

‘I will in a minute,’ she said, parting her red lips to expose perfect teeth. ‘Would you mind making yourself at home? I’ve just a few things to finish in the kitchen.’

‘Not at all,’ he said, with a gracious bow. Ute thought Gerdes had an almost aristocratic look. He was wearing a blazer, a crisp white collar and a blue tie with fine red stripes through it. There was something about him that made him look as though he belonged in a different era. A past time.

She extended her arm in the direction of the dining table, indicating he should sit, excused herself once more and walked through to the kitchen. She closed the door behind her. From where he was sitting, Gerdes would not have been able to see into the kitchen when she opened the door. She had planned it that way. She stood and took a moment to think through all she had to do. Then she cast an eye around the kitchen, just to make sure.

Yes, everything was ready.

Ute stood listening to the soup simmering on the hob and the low whirr of the oven’s fan, while all around her the floor, the work surfaces, even the walls to shoulder height, were covered in thick blue plastic sheeting.

To catch any splashes of his blood.

Fabel could tell there was something on Susanne’s mind as soon as he came through the door of their apartment. He had become attuned to her moods since they had been
together: he knew when something was troubling her, but, like most men, he was capable only of reading the big signs and not the small print.

‘How did your talk with Gabi go?’ Susanne smiled but still looked preoccupied.

‘Fine. You know Gabi, she’s a smart kid. Smart enough to make up her own mind about things.’ Fabel kissed Susanne. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘I’ve been through the files you gave me on the Westland and Lensch murders.’ There was an impatient energy in the way Susanne spoke.

‘Okay …’ Fabel followed Susanne through to the lounge and they sat on the sofa, the files spread out in front of them on the coffee table. ‘What about your rule of not talking shop at home?’

‘I thought it was
our
rule … anyway, I’ll let it go this once. There’s something not right here. There is no pattern. In terms of victim profile or chronology.’

‘But we haven’t had enough victims for any true pattern to emerge.’

‘You did with the original murders in the nineties. But this time … I don’t know.’ She frowned as she flicked through the notes. ‘You’re putting your money on a copycat, right?’

‘Yes. At least for the moment.’

‘Okay, let’s say it is a copycat,’ said Susanne. ‘What kind of killer or killers are we looking at? God knows you’re almost as much an expert in the psychology of multiple murderers as I am, so you know that there are four broad groups that female serial killers fall into.’

‘Yep,’ Fabel said, leaning back in the sofa and placing his hands behind his head. ‘Angels of Death, Black Widows, Revenge Killers and Insanity Killers.’

‘Right, said Susanne. She got up, went through to the kitchen and came back with a chilled bottle of wine and two glasses. She poured them both a glass.

‘Very nice,’ he said, sipping the wine. ‘You can’t beat a nice crisp Chardonnay and a chat about dismembered bodies.’

‘Do you want to hear this or not?’ Susanne said impatiently.

‘Okay. The four groups. And you’re trying to pick where our girl belongs?’

‘Trying is right. Take the Angels of Death – women who are usually nurses or other medical professionals, who kill the vulnerable, and usually for profit or because they feel they are doing the victim a favour, when all the time they’re really getting off on the power trip of having life or death in their hands. She’s not one of them.’

‘Agreed.’ Fabel took another sip of his wine.

‘Then there are Black Widows. Black Widows in turn fall into two categories: the profit-motivated and the sexual predator or psychosexually motivated. Their victims tend to be known to them. Intimate. They kill their sexual partners or men they pick up.’

‘I’m sleeping on the couch tonight.’ Fabel grinned, then wiped the grin from his face in response to Susanne’s frown. ‘Okay, maybe our girl falls into that category. She does make sexual overtures and plays the part of a prostitute.’

‘But she doesn’t gain from the killings financially.’

‘She did take Westland’s phone, diary and wallet.’

Susanne shook her head. ‘That’s not the kind of score a Black Widow kills for. And I don’t see her deriving a sexual benefit from the killings – unless she orgasms because of the act of killing, the violence itself.’

‘But that would be extremely rare in a female killer, wouldn’t it?’ asked Fabel.

‘Yep …’ said Susanne. ‘It’s very common in male serial-killing behaviour, but extremely rare in female killers.’

‘But not totally unknown?’

‘You’ve heard of Irma Grese?’

‘The Bitch of Belsen?’ said Fabel, frowning. ‘Yes, of course I’ve heard of her.’

‘Grese had only turned twenty-three when she was hanged for crimes against humanity, meaning that she began committing those crimes from the age of about nineteen or twenty. She was a small, plain, not too bright and totally unexceptional girl who came from a basically anti-Nazi family; yet she developed a taste – a hunger – for exceptional cruelty. Both psychological and physical. She had a whip woven out of cellophane which would cut prisoners as she whipped them. She shot and beat prisoners to death, and it was clear she derived gratification from it. Everything points to her being a sexual sadist. As a psychological case, she serves as a warning about how female sexual drive can be channelled into political or religious hysteria. The thing about Grese was that she was an absolutely fanatical member of the League of German Girls. She was obsessed with it. These girls were indoctrinated with Nazi ideology at their most impressionable age, and at a key stage in their sexual development. Almost all of the female guards in concentration camps were recruited from the ranks of the League and Grese’s sexual maturation coincided with her being in a position of power where she could physically abuse prisoners. It was an exceptional context and an exceptional point in history.’