JF05 - The Valkyrie Song (47 page)

The rest of the interview was devoted to questions about details. About what Ralf Sparwald had been working on; about who else had talked with Westland at the pre-concert party; about the overlap of function between Norivon Environmental Technologies and SkK Biotech. About anything that Fabel thought he might be able to get some kind of reaction to. After about an hour, he stood up and thanked Brønsted for her time.

Once Fabel, Gessler and Vestergaard were outside on the street, Fabel drew a deep breath.

‘Hans,’ he said to Gessler without taking his eyes off the yacht. ‘Every NeuHansa file, every databank, every transaction – I want you all over that company like a rash. I’ll speak to the powers that be and get you all the time and people you need.’

‘I thought you might,’ said Gessler. ‘If there’s something there to be found, we’ll find it. I take it you now know who hired the Valkyrie? Or at least hired her through Drescher?’

‘Langstrup slipped up,’ said Fabel. ‘Of course there’s a murder that is not linked to the NeuHansa Group.’

‘Drescher’s,’ said Vestergaard.

‘Exactly. And we’ve nailed the lid down on that one for the time being. No one knows about it. Which means Langstrup, despite trying to cover it up, was talking about a murder that, as far as he and anyone outside the Murder Commission is concerned, hasn’t happened yet.’

‘The question remains,’ said Vestergaard, ‘whether Langstrup is running his own little empire or if Gina Brønsted herself is behind these killings.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Gessler. ‘Langstrup looks as if he knows how to handle himself. And he looks like he’s had more than one run-in with someone else who can handle themselves. But he just doesn’t strike me as the brains of the outfit.’

‘Me neither,’ said Fabel.

It was nearly the end of the working day. Fabel dropped Gessler off to pick up his car at the Presidium, made a quick call to Gennady Frolov’s office and fixed up an appointment in two days’ time. After doing a quick check with the Commission that nothing had come up while they had been out, Fabel drove Karin Vestergaard back to her hotel.

‘You know what I’m going to ask you, don’t you?’ he said, reverting to English again as they drove through the city centre.

‘I have a pretty good idea.’

‘You have a hell of a nerve, do you know that? I have extended you every professional courtesy. Damn it, I’ve extended personal courtesy and hospitality too. I introduced you to Susanne and you sat through the entire meal allowing us to believe we needed to speak English. I must say, you’re one hell of a fast learner. You seem to have progressed from not understanding a word to being totally bloody fluent in a matter of two weeks.’

‘
Übung macht den Meister
– isn’t that what you say in German? Practice makes perfect?’

Vestergaard was smiling mischievously. It totally disconcerted Fabel: it was the first time, other than brief glimpses during their meal together with Susanne, that he had seen anything like a genuine unguarded expression on her face.

‘I’m sorry, Jan,’ she continued. ‘You’re right, it was deceptive of me. But it really is better for me to speak in English.’

‘You didn’t seem to be struggling back there. Where the hell did you learn to speak German like that?’

‘I was brought up in South Jutland, just north of the border. My father was the opposite of Gina Brønsted: where she’s a Danish German, he was a German Dane. He spoke Sonderjysk dialect and German at home. German was my third language after English at school.’

‘Well, I can see you’ve retained a lot of it.’

‘There’s something else I ought to tell you …’ she said tentatively.

‘Okay, let’s have it.’

‘It wasn’t strictly true, what I told you about never having been to Hamburg before. I worked here during my breaks at university.’

‘Let me guess – to improve your German?’

‘Sorry.’

‘It doesn’t matter in itself, Karin, but we had a deal – how the hell am I to know what else you’ve kept to yourself?’

‘I’ve been totally straight with you, Jan. I just wasn’t sure that you’d be straight with me. I suppose I thought that if you thought I didn’t speak the language …’

‘And I take it by now your mind’s been put at ease?’ Fabel pulled into the semicircle of cobbles in front of the hotel.

‘Yes, it has. We’re on the same side, Jan. I promise you.’

There was no good reason to travel over to the other side of town for a drink, but Fabel felt the need to visit the bar that had been his local for all the time he had lived in Pöseldorf. He wasn’t entirely sure why he missed it so much: he had never really spent a great deal of time there, but it had been somewhere he had been known; where staff and other customers acknowledged his presence with a nod or a wave. It had been an anchor in his life: a point of reference that had helped him keep a bearing on who Jan Fabel was.

Fabel sat at the corner of the bar, sipped at his Jever beer and thought about women. Whether he liked to admit the fact or not, it had been the women in his life who had determined its direction. Right down to the tiniest degree.

It was a woman who had steered him into a career as a policeman.

Fabel had attended the Carl von Ossietzky University in Oldenburg before studying European history at Hamburg University. While he had been there he had never quite managed to get involved in all of the expected student indiscretions. But he had been a good-looking kid and had had his pick of the girls. One of them had been Hanna Dorn, a fellow student and the daughter of one of Fabel’s tutors. Hanna had been a pretty, carefree sort of girl and they had both known, Fabel guessed, that they were not in it for the
long term. They were having fun with the arrogant carelessness of youth. Now, every time Fabel thought about Hanna’s face, he concentrated hard to remember every detail. It was a face that, if what happened hadn’t happened, would have faded, along with her name, into the dusty, indistinct archives of his memory.

One night, after they had been going out for about two weeks, Hanna had been making her way back alone to her flat after being with Fabel on a date. He had had an assignment to finish. Hanna never made it home.

Lutger Voss had been a thirty-year-old hospital orderly at the St George Hospital. The only thing about Voss that had been exceptional was his psychosis. Voss had intercepted Hanna on her way home and abducted her.

The autopsy and forensic evidence had later revealed that Voss had tortured and repeatedly raped Hanna. When her body had been found, Fabel, as her boyfriend and the last person to see her alive, had been questioned for hours by the Polizei Hamburg until they had become convinced of his innocence. But Fabel had never become as convinced of the absence of his responsibility: having an assignment to complete had not seemed reason enough not to have walked her home. Even now, more than twenty years later, he often woke up in the middle of the night racked with guilt because he hadn’t been there to save her.

Lutger Voss had been committed to a secure hospital three days before Fabel had graduated. The day after, Fabel had applied to join the Polizei Hamburg.

The young barman placed a fresh Jever on the bar in front of Fabel without him having ordered it. When Fabel raised his eyebrows quizzically, the barman nodded in the direction of a tall, lanky, balding man who was approaching him.

‘You’re late,’ Fabel said.

‘You’re obsessive.’ Otto Jensen grinned, in exactly the same gormless way Fabel remembered from their student days
together. ‘Or maybe just depressive. I saw you when I came in. I’d offer a penny for your thoughts but I don’t think I’d get my money’s worth.’

‘I was thinking about women,’ said Fabel.

‘Don’t worry,’ Otto kept grinning. ‘It’s your age. It’s not so bad – a midlife crisis is like puberty but without the acne.’

‘I was thinking about Hanna Dorn.’

Otto’s grin faded. ‘Hanna? What made you think of her after all of these years?’

‘Otto, my friend, there’s hardly a week goes by that I don’t think of her. Or at least what happened to her.’

They were interrupted by the barman bringing a wheat beer for Otto.

‘Every time I interview a sex killer, I think of Voss,’ continued Fabel once the barman was gone and he felt the cloak of loud music and other voices close around them. ‘Every time I read the forensic report on a rape and murder victim, I think of Hanna. If it hadn’t been for what happened to her I would never have become a policeman. I wouldn’t have singled out Murder Commission work as a career.’

‘And if I hadn’t read Heinrich Böll I wouldn’t have devoted my life to books,’ said Otto. ‘That’s life, Jan.’

‘How is business?’ asked Fabel. Otto ran Jensens’ Buchhandlung bookstore in Hamburg’s elegant Arkaden.

‘We’re clinging on. I did a book launch for a science-fiction author last week who very graciously announced that his next book would not be appearing on our shelves. He is releasing it exclusively as a downloadable e-book and audio book. We are, he assured me, finally attaining the “post-literate society” that many science-fiction authors, including himself, had long predicted. So move over – I may become a copper myself.’ Otto took a large sip of his wheat beer. ‘Anyway, why did you suggest meeting up here? It’s not your local any more.’

‘That’s why I was thinking about women,’ said Fabel
gloomily. ‘Do you remember when I first moved here, to Pöseldorf?’

‘When you and Renate split up.’

‘Exactly. You know, Otto, I like to think of myself as some kind of freethinker, liberated from dogma or prejudice or preconception; someone who sees the world afresh from my own perspective. It’s a pile of crap. The truth is that I’m just as much a product of my background as anyone else – just a simple, parochial, predictable bloody Northern German Lutheran. When I married Renate and then Gabi came along, I thought, this is it. This is my life. For the rest of my life. Then, when Renate pissed off with Behrens, my world came apart at the seams. And I ended up here, in my attic flat around the corner, rebuilding my life. Then, just when I got settled here and had a real idea of where I was with everything, I meet Susanne and all of a sudden I’m living in Altona and part of a couple again.’

‘I know,’ said Otto, with a mockingly sympathetic frown. ‘The bad beautiful woman took away your freedom. How can you live without sitting on your own eating takeaway meals in front of the TV? Are you trying to say you’re sorry you got involved with Susanne?’

‘No, not at all. What I am saying is that, every step of the way, there’s been a woman defining the moment for me. Hanna, Gisela Frohm …’

‘Jan, I don’t know where you’re going with all this.’

Fabel smiled and slapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘Don’t look so worried, Otto. It doesn’t suit you. I’m just – I don’t know – it’s just this case I’m working on. It’s all about women.’

‘Oh God, yeah – this “Angel of St Pauli”.’

‘That’s only part of it. There’s this other thing as well. A female assassin. Probably based here in Hamburg.’ Fabel caught the expression on his friend’s face. ‘What is it?’

‘You …’ Otto made a show of being shocked. ‘You have
never talked to me about a case you’ve been working on. Never.’

‘I’m becoming indiscreet in my old age. And if I can’t trust you, Otto, I don’t know who the hell I
can
trust.’ Fabel took another sip of Jever. ‘Anyway, at the moment everything I’m involved in seems to involve violent women. Speaking of which, Renate has been busting my balls as well.’

‘What about?’

‘Gabi has expressed an interest in a police career. It’s all my fault, apparently.’

‘Probably is. I find it’s best just to assume you’re always in the wrong. It works for me with Else. Anyway, I’m sure Gabi has been influenced by you. It’s not surprising that she’s thinking about becoming a police officer.’

A table became free in the corner and they took their beers across to it. As Fabel chatted with his friend, he felt himself relax. Otto was one of the most clumsy and disorganised people he knew, yet Fabel knew that this bumbling two-metre-tall gawky tangle of chaos had one of the sharpest minds he had ever encountered. They had been friends since their first meeting and Otto had the ability to puncture Fabel’s occasional bubble of self-indulgence or self-importance. As they talked, Fabel became distracted: there was an older man by the bar whom Fabel knew he had seen before but couldn’t place. The man was dressed casually but everything about him reeked of wealth: his white hair was immaculately groomed and he wore an expensive-looking deep blue cashmere sweater. He looked out of place in the bar but Fabel guessed he was here as an indulgence to his companion, an exceptionally pretty woman who stood to his side and three decades behind him.

‘I’m guessing she went for his looks and personality.’ Otto had followed Fabel’s gaze to the couple. ‘It’s called hyper-gamy, Jan: the tendency for women to select partners of a higher socio-economic level. We should consider ourselves lucky that Else and Susanne weren’t too fussy.’

‘They’re not a couple,’ said Fabel. ‘She’s a diversion for him. That’s not what’s bothering me. It’s the guy – I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere before. Do you know him?’

Otto reached into his jacket pocket, put his glasses on and leaned forward, peering in the couple’s direction.