The Ghosts of Altona (32 page)

‘Sex and death,’ said Fabel thoughtfully. ‘It’s a potent mix.’

‘As I’m sure you’ve encountered in your work, dealing with people who have killed for physical gratification, the lines between sex and death can blur. Venereal diseases haunted both the Romantic and Gothic genres. One could argue that vampirism was a metaphor for syphilis. One could even extend the argument that HIV/AIDS was an epidemiological revival of the Romantic Gothic. Have you noticed how zombieism and vampirism have dominated television and movies for more than two decades? Sex, infection and death. The Gothic is still with us, will always be with us, as long as sex and death remain part of the human experience.’

Fabel reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out the photograph he had brought with him. He handed the photograph to Rohde, who placed it on the table while he searched for his glasses.

‘Sorry,’ he said when he returned with a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles balanced halfway down the aquiline nose. ‘I’m always forgetting where I put them.’ He examined the photograph.

‘Does that mean anything to you?’ asked Fabel. ‘Both Werner Hensler and Detlev Traxinger had these Gothic-styled tattoos on their chests, just above the heart.’

Rohde looked across at Fabel. ‘Is this . . .’

‘It’s a post-mortem picture, yes.’

Rohde examined it again, then shook his head slowly. ‘The initials mean nothing to me, nor the overall design. But this motif – the interlacing ivy and acanthus – that maybe has some symbolism.’

‘Like what? I’ve heard that the acanthus was associated with death.’

‘That’s not strictly true,’ said Rohde. ‘The acanthus leaf is the most common motif used in Corinthian and Greek architecture. A lot of Roman too. You’ll see it used in funerary symbolism too – but it doesn’t mean death, it means the
survival
of death. Life beyond the grave, if you like. Even immortality.’

‘And the ivy?’ asked Anna.

‘That too has a similar symbolism. Immortality, endurance – particularly enduring love or friendship. If you’re asking me if I feel this tattoo could be linked to the so-called Gothic set, then yes – I can’t imagine two more Gothic symbols than ivy and acanthus.’

Fabel nodded, processing what Rohde had said. ‘Can you remember the name of the other person?’

‘What other person?’ Rohde looked puzzled.

‘You told us there was someone else involved with the so-called Gothic set, but you couldn’t remember their name.’

He thought for a moment. ‘Wait a minute . . . there
was
someone else. Yes, yes, I remember now. There was a male student, not one of mine, not literature. Damn it, what was his name? That’s the problem: he was one of the orbiting planets, minor planets, and not one of the stars at the centre. You know, the kind of poor soul who desperately wants to be part of something but is condemned to the sidelines. He was always at the extra-curricular lectures I gave. I really got the impression that he was there simply to be near Monika – although he did have a real interest in Gothic influences in film, that kind of thing.’ Rohde’s eyes brightened and he snapped his fingers emphatically. ‘Mesling . . . Messing . . . something like that. And he was a Sociology student. That was it.’

*

Rohde saw them both to the door of the cottage.

‘This is a really nice place you’ve got here, Herr Professor.’

‘Thank you. It’s quiet here, which suits me. I eke out my university pension by writing the odd piece on the Gothic for periodicals. At the moment I’m writing an autobiography on Ann Radcliffe, one of the very first ever Gothic novelists. You know her work?’

Fabel shook his head.

‘I think you would enjoy her, Herr Fabel. Forensically, I mean. She was a great believer in the rational resolution. Her stories revolved around supernatural goings-on that her investigators always exposed to have nothing at all to do with the supernatural but which had a rational, real world explanation.’

‘Just like
Scooby-Doo
. . .’ Anna said, smiling. Fabel shot her a warning look.

‘It’s really a pity you missed my wife,’ said Rohde, again frowning. ‘Where was it she said she was going? Anyway, she’ll be back soon.’

Fabel shook Rohde’s hand. ‘Thank you for your help, Herr Professor.’

*

As they got into the car and Fabel started to drive off, he had to brake to allow through a Land Rover coming in from the drive. As she passed, the female driver eyed Fabel and Anna curiously, almost suspiciously.

‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me . . .’ muttered Anna.

‘So that’s Frau Rohde,’ said Fabel as he moved off again. In his rear-view mirror he watched the woman make her way over to Rohde and kiss him on the cheek, then look again in Fabel’s direction, clearly asking her husband who had been visiting. She was at least fifteen years younger than her husband, well-dressed and attractive without being beautiful. She stood watching Fabel’s car make its way back to the main road, the late summer sun picking out bright highlights in her shoulder-length, rich auburn-red hair.

49

‘Have you come to probe me for a second time?’ asked Anja Koetzing. Like the last time they had spoken, Traxinger’s business manager was dressed in a black skirt suit but this time her blouse was open-necked and when she again stood too close to Fabel, he could smell her scent, hot, musky and sweet. He laughed a little uncomfortably and stood back, feeling the heat in his neck and cheeks. Once more, Fabel found himself discomfited by his own reaction to her.

‘Oh I’m sorry,’ she said coyly. ‘I’ve made you blush. Do you know some psychologists consider that a blush is a “redirected erection”?’

‘Why do I feel I need a chaperone whenever I question you, Frau Koetzing? An armed chaperone?’

‘But you didn’t bring one, did you? Fair game, I say.’ She moved even closer.

‘Frau Koetzing . . .’ Fabel injected his tone with authority. ‘This is a serious matter. I am investigating the murder of your business partner and I would appreciate your proper attention and cooperation.’

She laughed, her deep hazel eyes flashing darkly. ‘Anything you say, Herr Principal Chief Commissar. I was only playing with you. How can I help?’

‘I’d like to talk some more about Herr Traxinger. But I’d also like to have another look at his paintings.’

‘Sure. What do you want to know?’

‘Is there anything –
anything
– you can tell me about Traxinger’s private life?’

‘Detlev’s life was an open book – but as I’m sure you know, anyone whose life is an open book is hiding more than everyone else. He rejoiced in scandal and saw himself as some kind of
bête noire
of the artistic world. Truth is that rejoicing in a little scandal is good PR and goes a long way to boost sales. People buy the artist as much as the art. Underneath it all Detlev was as much a conformist as anyone else – just that he was conforming to the non-conformity that was expected of him, if you know what I mean.’

Fabel nodded. ‘Have you heard of Tobias Albrecht?’

‘The architect? Of course I have.’

‘Did Herr Traxinger ever talk about him, or mention knowing him?’

Koetzing thought for a moment then shook her head, red lips pursed. ‘I can’t say he ever did. Which was odd.’

‘Odd? Why?’

‘Because architectural practices are great buyers and renters of original art. I’ve got clients across Germany in the architectural sector, but not Albrecht and Partners. I just couldn’t get an appointment. I guessed that he didn’t like Detlev’s work so I let it go. And I can’t remember Detlev ever mentioning Albrecht.’

‘They were friends at university,’ said Fabel. ‘And I know that they crossed paths at arts-related functions, at least two or three times.’

‘Not any I was also at, I can tell you that. You telling me that Detlev knew Tobias Albrecht is complete news to me. I mean, I told Detlev I was chasing Albrecht and Partners for business. He didn’t pass any comment even then.’

*

They walked through to the gallery and storeroom side of the studio, Anja Koetzing leading the way. Fabel, despite his best efforts, found himself watching her body as she walked ahead of him. She was like a small cat: sleek, dark, sensually elegant. The truth was he didn’t like her flirting with him because he really was strongly attracted to her.

‘Here we are . . .’ Koetzing unlocked the door to the storeroom, leaned in and switched on the light. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you about some of the paintings.’

Koetzing arched an eyebrow and smiled. ‘All this time have you just been trying to get me alone in a dark storeroom?’

‘Frau Koetzing . . .’ Fabel again tried to inject warning into his tone, but it sounded feeble.

‘Okay, okay . . . I’ll behave. Your virtue shall remain untarnished.’

Fabel went to the back of the storeroom and pulled out the series of paintings featuring Monika Krone. The original painting, the one Fabel had found first, was no longer there but being examined by the forensics department, who were trying to work out roughly when it had been painted. The pictures that remained disturbed Fabel. There was some bright, cold cruelty that Traxinger had clearly sought to express in his depictions of Monika.

‘Why was Detlev Traxinger so obsessed with Monika Krone? Most of these works were done long after her death.’

‘I honestly don’t know. Like I told you, I didn’t see most of these paintings until you showed them to me. She appeared in a lot of his stuff I did see, but at that time I just assumed it was some sort of idealized redhead. I always knew he had a thing for redheads, I just didn’t know that it was more that he had a thing for one
particular
redhead. He had a muse I didn’t know about.’

Fabel pulled out another of the larger canvases. Again it was Monika Krone, this time dressed in dark green velvet and what Fabel guessed to be seventeenth-century fashion. Her hair was still partly in the style of that time, but snake-like strands of it, swept by wind, coiled and writhed their way free of pin and clasp. Her hands were sheathed in riding gloves and held a black, plaited-leather horsewhip gathered in loops. Again her eyes burned with the cold emerald fire that Traxinger had sought to capture in all of his paintings of her. He had signed the painting with the monogram DT, using the same design as the tattoo both he and Hensler had borne above their hearts. This time, however, he had also added a title, small and in dabs of black paint as if written with quill and ink, next to the monogram. It was difficult to read and Fabel leaned close to make it out.

‘
La Quintrala
. . .’ he said, stepping back to look up into the cold, cruel green gaze. ‘What does that mean?’

Koetzing didn’t answer for a moment then said, ‘It’s Spanish. It was the nickname of Catalina de los Ríos y Lisperguer. She was a Chilean landowner in the time of Spanish colonial rule. In fact she became a symbol for all that was wrong with colonial rule.’

Fabel turned to her. ‘You’re remarkably well informed . . .’

Koetzing grinned and held up her smartphone, screen towards him. ‘No, I’m remarkably well connected to the internet.’ She examined the screen again, the smile fading. ‘It would appear that
La Quintrala
was a monster. Extremely beautiful, extremely clever, and extremely fucking crazy. According to this she was a female serial killer. Apparently she used that whip of hers to beat her . . .’ She frowned at the screen. ‘Her
inquilinos
. . .’

‘Indentured workers – basically slaves.’ Fabel recalled the Spanish term from his days as a history student. He stared at the painting. Traxinger certainly had had a particular talent for capturing cruelty. ‘What else does it say about her?’

Koetzing read for a moment, holding her phone close. ‘Well, she was quite a gal . . . apparently the nickname
La Quintrala
was given to her because of the colour of her flaming red hair. The name comes from some kind of mistletoe called the quintral that grows in Patagonia and has bright red flowers. She was part German, by the way, which explains the Lisperguer bit of her name, I suppose. She was a sexual adventuress – well, can’t blame a girl for that – and prolific murderer of her own family, a priest and anybody else who pissed her off, basically.’ Koetzing fell silent for a moment while she scrolled through and read the information. ‘But it was her taste for killing servants that earned her her reputation. Some say she killed forty, others say the true figure was in the hundreds. Same old story though: no one cared about the plebs, but she stood trial for the murders of her more noble victims. She got away with it all, of course.’

‘Do you think that’s really how Traxinger saw her? Monika, I mean?’

‘I don’t know. It could have been just some kind of joke. Detlev’s extremely ornate version of a caricature.’

‘And you say he never mentioned Monika Krone to you?’

‘Not once.’

As he stared up at the painting, Fabel thought about how Kerstin Krone had described her sister – the cliché of the evil twin made real. Two men dead: two men linked to a young woman who had disappeared off the face of the earth fifteen years before. Not just linked, obsessed with her. And one of them had painted her over and over again in Gothic-themed paintings: a figure of death, of sexual, physical and mental torment. A beautiful monster.

50

Sleep kept promising itself to Fabel, but stayed teasingly just out of reach. His body was exhausted but his mind flashed and fluttered with thoughts, ideas, disjointed images, fragments of things people had said. Susanne slept soundly beside him and he tried to will himself into a sleep that refused to yield. He slipped out of bed and went through to the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of milk and sitting at the small table, staring blankly at its surface, trying to shut out all thoughts of work.

But it wasn’t just Fabel’s caseload that had kept him awake: an undecided future taunted him every time he neared sleep. As Anna had pointed out, Leading Criminal Director Horst van Heiden, the officer in charge of all of the City State’s investigative branches and Fabel’s immediate boss, had been on sick leave for three months and was due to retire. The Police President had been filling van Heiden’s role as well as her own and the search was on for a permanent replacement. The rumour was that, at the moment, the search hadn’t extended any further than Fabel. The truth was that the idea of becoming Leading Criminal Director in charge of the whole State Criminal Office had started to have its appeal. The life of a bureaucrat and administrator would perhaps result in fewer sleepless nights and fewer vivid nightmares when he did sleep.