JF05 - The Valkyrie Song (37 page)

‘Could be,’ said Fabel. ‘But my money’s on him operating from here.’

‘He would feel reasonably safe here, I suppose,’ said Lorenz. ‘I mean, it’s not like in the GDR. He probably thought this flat would never be searched.’ He cast his eye across the books on shelves. ‘It makes things quicker if I don’t tidy up behind me. Is that a problem?’

‘Do what you have to do,’ said Fabel.

It took Lorenz less than half an hour.

‘Like I thought,’ he said in his Saxon baritone when he came back through to the living room. ‘He felt secure here. You were right about him using this as an operational base, so I reckoned there was no point in shifting heavy furniture, bookcases, et cetera. He would want to conceal his stuff but have reasonably easy access to it.’

‘You learned that from the Stasi?’ asked Martina.

‘Journalists and writers – we were taught that they had to keep manuscripts, typewriters, that kind of thing handy. Serious dissidents and foreign agents – they were a different kettle of fish. That’s why I thought this guy might be difficult. If he was HVA. But this couldn’t have been more straightforward.’

Lorenz led them through to the study. He lifted up the deco-style bronze bird and gave the wooden base a twist. A compartment was exposed in which sat a small steel tool, almost like a nail twisted into a flattened hook. Lorenz took the hook and leant down beneath the desk. What looked to Fabel like a small chip in a floorboard was actually a perfect fit for the hook. Lorenz inserted the hook, gave it a half-twist and lifted a square of floorboard. The whole operation took less than fifteen seconds.

‘It’s nothing more than having a secret drawer,’ said Lorenz. ‘It was secure enough but easy and quick to get to. I haven’t touched anything in there.’

Fabel snapped on a pair of latex gloves and knelt down to examine the contents.

‘There’s a black laptop computer in here, along with its power supply. Also a bunch of data sticks. Nothing else – no notebooks or files. Just this …’ He eased out a copy of a magazine that had been folded lengthwise.

‘Don’t tell me he hid porn in there,’ snorted Werner.

‘Werner, go down to the flat below and ask Holger Brauner or Astrid Bremer to come up with a few large evidence bags.’
Fabel unfolded the magazine. He showed Vestergaard and Martina Schilmann the title. ‘Now I could be wrong,’ he said, ‘but I don’t really see Drescher as your typical feminist.’

‘
Muliebritas
,’ Vestergaard said aloud.

‘It’s a feminist title,’ explained Fabel. ‘The title is Latin. It’s where the English word “muliebrity” comes from. The female equivalent of virility. There’s a subtle difference from femininity. We would translate it as
Fraulichkeit
in German. I suppose you have a Danish word for it.

‘
Kvindelighed
,’ said Vestergaard.

Fabel stared at the magazine. ‘I tell you what else this is: a prime example of synchronicity. The night Jake Westland was murdered, there was a massive feminist protest in Herbertstrasse that contributed to the confusion. And it was organised by
Muliebritas
.’

Werner reappeared with some evidence bags. Fabel slipped the magazine into one and handed it to Vestergaard. Easing the computer and its power connector out of the recess in the floor, he placed them in a tagged evidence bag, putting the data sticks in a separate one.

He turned to Vestergaard and Martina. ‘We’ll get this stuff down to Tech Division and see if they can get into the computer. I’m guessing it’s encrypted, but the tech guys will be able to get through it. God knows how many paedophiles we’ve nicked because they thought they’d locked up their porn safe and sound.’

‘A paedophile is one thing,’ said Astrid Bremer, who had appeared behind them. ‘A professional spy is another. That is what we’ve got here, isn’t it?’

‘I think so, Astrid,’ said Fabel. ‘But from a pre-digital age. This was maybe one area he wasn’t too hot on. How are you getting on downstairs?’

‘It’ll take a while. Days, maybe. But Holger said he could spare me if you need something special up here.’

‘Anything,’ said Fabel. ‘We’ve got one killer in custody but
there’s another one, maybe even two, on the loose. And she’s connected to the victim, Drescher. I need anything that can point us in the right direction.’

‘Do you think she’s been in this apartment?’

‘No. Probably not. But if there’s a trace of anybody other than the vic having been in here I want to know about it. Also, if you come across anything unusual let me know. But can you start with this.’ Fabel handed Astrid the copy of
Muliebritas
. ‘This doesn’t belong here. It could have been handled by the person we’re looking for. Either that or it’s the mechanism he used to contact her. I need it checked before we start going through it with a cryptologist.’

‘I’ll get right onto it,’ said Astrid, and she smiled broadly at Fabel.

The first thing Fabel did when he got back to the Presidium was to phone Criminal Director van Heiden to approve the overtime for his team and the extra officers he would need to draft in. Van Heiden gave him the authority immediately and without question, which surprised Fabel a little: he had become used to his superior being grudging about any extra expenses on an investigation, as if he personally had to finance them. But, there again, this case had started off as three: Jespersen’s death, the Angel killings in St Pauli and Drescher’s torture and murder. It was all getting too messy, too political and the media were focusing on it. Complication was something van Heiden had difficulty dealing with. Fabel guessed that his superior was under pressure to clear it all up as quickly as possible.

‘Are you convinced all of these crimes are connected?’ asked van Heiden.

‘Pretty convinced,’ said Fabel. He gestured to Karin Vestergaard, who had just come into his office, to sit down. ‘It’s safe to assume that this GDR hit squad called the Valkyries
has been operating for profit from here in Hamburg. Drescher ran it and he’s been killed by one of his former trainees.’

‘He didn’t recognise her?’ asked van Heiden.

‘I get the impression she was a reject, probably because of her mental-health problems. And it was a long time ago. She probably just dropped off his radar and out of his memory.’

‘Okay,’ said van Heiden. ‘Keep me informed. So I can keep others informed.’

‘Of course.’ Fabel hung up and turned his attention to Vestergaard. Again he noticed that she had done something with her make-up that had subtly changed her look and once more Fabel was struck by how attractive her face was, yet how forgettable. Maybe it was something that Margarethe Paulus shared with her. Maybe the appearance of the Valkyries had been a criterion: attractive but forgettable. Maybe that was why Drescher had not recognised his killer.

‘You said you’ve been given new information from the Norwegian investigators of Halvorsen’s murder?’ Fabel asked her.

‘The Norwegian National Police have been in touch with me through my office.’ Vestergaard leaned forward and placed a note on Fabel’s desk. ‘This man – Ralf Sparwald – is someone Jørgen Halvorsen seems to have had contact with. It’s believed that Halvorsen visited Hamburg to talk to him.’

‘Who is he?’ Fabel examined the name and address written on the note.

‘He’s a doctor of some kind. His name was flagged up when the Norwegian police got a warrant to access Halvorsen’s email account. They could only get what is still in his in-box, uncollected. There was an out-of-office reply from this guy’s email address. The Norwegians knew I was in Hamburg and that there was a possible connection here, so they sent this on to me.’

Fabel checked his watch. Most of the day had been spent at the Drescher crime scene or in briefings. It was now
six-thirty p.m. ‘Okay – so you think I should speak to Sparwald? It’ll have to be tomorrow now.’

‘No, I think
we
should speak to Sparwald, if that’s okay with you.’

Fabel shrugged. ‘I don’t mind you coming along to observe. But please don’t forget whose inquiry this is.’

‘Somehow I don’t think you’ll let me forget,’ said Vestergaard, and smiled.

The address Vestergaard had given Fabel for Sparwald was to the north of the city, in Poppenbüttel, in the Wandsbeck district. Wandsbeck had once been part of Schleswig-Holstein and had only been incorporated into Hamburg at the same time as Altona and even now, sitting on the shores of the Alster River, Poppenbüttel still felt more like a country village than a suburb.

As soon as Fabel and Vestergaard arrived, it was clear that the address they had been given was Sparwald’s place of work rather than residence. SkK BioTech was located in an unobtrusive, low-level building set in an expanse of well-laid-out garden and fringed with winter-bare trees. Five smallish flags flew from poles set next to each other, UN-style, in the garden: the SkK BioTech logo fluttered in the cold breeze next to the flags of the EU, Germany and, Fabel noticed, the white-on-red Nordic cross of Denmark. There was another flag beside it.

‘They must have known you were coming,’ Fabel said to Vestergaard, with a nod to the Danish flag. He looked at the flag next to it. It was a non-national pennant: a white field with a small flared red cross on it.

The small, dumpy receptionist took a while to come to the desk from an office behind. From her reaction, SkK BioTech was not accustomed to visitors, particularly ones without an appointment. Fabel held up his police identity card.

‘We need to speak to Herr Sparwald, if he’s available.’

‘Herr
Doctor
Sparwald,’ corrected the receptionist. She looked from Fabel to Vestergaard and back. She had the nervousness and vague expression of groundless guilt of someone unaccustomed to dealing with the police. ‘I’m afraid he’s not here. He’s on leave. Another two weeks.’

‘I see …’ Fabel considered his options for a moment. ‘What is it you do here?’

‘I work in the admin department. Deal with correspondence and answer the phones.’

Fabel laughed. ‘I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. I meant what does SkK BioTech do, exactly?’

‘Oh …’ The fleshy cheeks of the small receptionist coloured. ‘We work for medical research companies. Herr Doctor Lüttig could tell you more. Shall I fetch him?’

‘If that’s not too much trouble,’ said Fabel.

Fabel and Vestergaard exchanged a smile when the receptionist left. She returned with a tall, thin and lugubriously sombre man in his late forties. He was dressed in a white lab coat but, to Fabel’s mind, he had the look of a Lutheran preacher from some remote Frisian island.

‘I’m Thomas Lüttig. I believe you are looking for my colleague Ralf Sparwald. Is there a problem?’

Again Fabel held up his ID. ‘I’m Principal Chief Commissar Jan Fabel of the Polizei Hamburg Murder Commission. This is
Politidirektør
Karin Vestergaard of the Danish National Police.’

‘Murder?’ Lüttig’s grave expression became, somehow, graver. ‘What’s this got to do—’

Fabel held up his hand. ‘Please, don’t concern yourself. Nothing at all directly. We’re just helping out our Norwegian colleagues with a few inquiries. I believe Dr Sparwald is on leave?’

‘Yes. He won’t be back for … let me see, he’s been away a week, so he won’t be back for another two and a half weeks,’ said Lüttig.

‘That’s a long holiday,’ said Fabel.

‘Yes. It is. I suppose it had to be … China you see. I suppose if you travel that far you’ve got to make it worth your while. Although I really could do with him here … Dr Sparwald is my deputy, you see, as well as being the most senior analyst.’

Fabel began to translate into English for Vestergaard what Lüttig had said.

‘I studied at Cambridge, amongst other places,’ Lüttig interrupted him. ‘It’s quite in order for me to speak in English if that makes things easier.’

‘Thank you,’ said Vestergaard, and smiled. ‘You couldn’t arrange cover for him? A trip to China takes a lot of arranging – you must have had a fair bit of advance warning.’

‘That’s the thing. I didn’t. Ralf sort of sprung this on me out of the blue. He’s like that – he is a very committed environmentalist. That’s why he works here: the group we do work for is heavily involved in environmental clean-up. But even with warning, it would be practically impossible to find someone to fill in for him. Or at least anyone with a remotely similar set of skills.’

‘Can you explain what it is you do here?’

‘Basically we’re an analysis laboratory,’ said Lüttig. ‘We’re a wholly owned subsidiary of an environmental and biotechnical group. We do all of their analytical work. Toxicology. Everything from soil samples to human tissue. We specialise in evaluating environmental impacts and identifying pollution-related health risks.’

‘I see,’ said Fabel. ‘Do you know what part of China Dr Sparwald is visiting?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t.’

‘Is he travelling alone, do you know?’ asked Vestergaard.

‘Again, I’m not really sure. He said something about a Norwegian friend.’

Fabel and Vestergaard exchanged a look.

‘Didn’t you say you were helping the Norwegian police?’ Lüttig frowned. ‘Is Ralf in some danger?’

‘No, no,’ said Fabel. ‘Not at all. It’s just that he may have information that could be useful to us. This Norwegian, do you know his name?’