by Lars Schutz
‘Our killer was certainly busy last night,’ remarked Jan. ‘Both sites are nearby, true, but it would have taken great strength and been a huge risk to kill and arrange both of them in one night. Whatever it is, he values his goal more highly than anything else.’
‘His goal?’ asked Köllner. ‘He’s not finished yet?’
‘“A”, “B” . . . what’s next?’
The Inspector’s voice was toneless. ‘“C”.’
The rope broke and the corpse hit the sheet with a dull thud. The sound made Jan retch, but he suppressed it with a gulp.
He’d already been feeling nauseous.
Only now did he realise how much he was shivering. The overalls were squeezing the air out of him. The world pelted him, raining symbols. Signals and questions. Tiny nuances that wouldn’t let him go. The way somebody had stressed a word. The oppressive rhythm of the hanged man swinging back and forth. The snapping branches. The technicians whispering instructions.
All these puzzles. The labyrinth of hypotheses.
He tried to control his breath. Not now, not now.
For years he’d wondered why he was so sensitive. Why he perceived more than others did. It wasn’t until he’d met his mentor at Bochum University that he’d been diagnosed with hypersensitivity, a psychological phenomenon that constantly threatened him with sensory overload.
It had taken him all his student years and great effort to control it, but now it was among his most important tools.
‘Everything all right? You’re very pale.’ Rabea carefully stroked his back. The others stared.
‘I’ll explain later,’ he simply whispered, telling the others, ‘It’s fine. Just the corpse.’
Another lie.
8
‘You want to know why I shave myself bald?’
They were driving past the mossy wall of the castle gardens, just entering Hachenburg, when Stüter asked the question. He was sitting next to Jan in the passenger seat of the Mercedes, while Rabea typed information into her iPad on the back seat.
‘I’m sure you have your reasons.’
Jan frowned. Why was the Superintendent bringing this up all of a sudden?
He turned onto Alexanderring, the road that ran underneath Hachenburg Castle. That way he’d avoid the narrow streets of the old town centre, where he’d never liked driving.
Although Jan and Rabea had wanted to stay longer at the sites, Stüter had ordered them to the car. Anita Ichigawa had arranged a meeting for the investigation team at the police station in Hachenburg.
It was a good idea to keep appointments with Anita – Jan knew that all too well.
‘My father has dementia. It’s so advanced that he only recognises me on good days,’ said Stüter, answering his own question. He huddled in his seat, bracing his knees against the glove compartment.
‘Listen, this is a bit too personal for——’
‘No, no!’ Stüter waved his hands. ‘I prefer it this way. I like to play with my cards on the table. I’ve got nothing to hide. If you’re working with people on a case like this, you’ve got to trust each other. And this is part of that.’
They joined Saynstrasse. Only a few yards to the police station now. Stüter was beginning to confound Jan’s judgement of him. What was this man getting at? In such cases it was most advisable to simply listen.
‘The illness, the dementia, began around the same time my father started going grey. It felt to me like that was a sign of mental decline.’
Stüter fell silent, kneading his hands.
‘So, you took action? You were afraid of your own decline.’
‘Yes. I was afraid of getting older, of creeping decline. Of not being master of my brain, or, God forbid, my bladder. I’m being frank with you, so you don’t start trying to analyse me.’
Fear of losing control. That sounded about right. Stüter even wanted to control Jan’s impression of him. So, it seemed only logical that he was upset by anything external that forced itself into his system.
Like the investigation team, for example.
‘We still don’t have a name for the team,’ he grumbled. ‘Although I’m sure Ichigawa will come up with something PR-friendly. Investigation Team Letter Murders, Investigation Team Alphabet Killer, Investigation Team ABC, something along those lines.’
They got out of the car and crossed the car park. The two-storey, bright yellow police station nestled in the shadow of some fir trees. A completely nondescript official building.
‘Have you ever heard of the Black Swan theory?’ asked Stüter suddenly. ‘Totally unforeseeable events are referred to as “black swans”. The nuclear disaster at Fukushima, for example, the discovery of penicillin, or nine-eleven. We often find explanations in hindsight, but we can’t predict them. Ever. Even though they have a huge impact. The Alphabet Killer is a “black swan”. Someone like that can’t be predicted. Can’t be decoded. We can only react, never act.’
With those words, Stüter turned away from Jan and followed Rabea, who was already walking towards the station.
Jan caught up with him in a few strides. ‘That’s why you don’t think much of behavioural analysis, right?’
‘If you can tell me which people are going to become “black swans”, I might revise my opinion.’ Stüter paused and looked at him, his eyes narrowed to slits. ‘I know the name Grall from somewhere. Something happened, years ago.’
Jan felt a twitch in his right thigh, which rapidly became a warm throb. He compressed his lips. The old wound. Sometimes it would turn up like a bad penny, like an unloved old acquaintance, bumping into you on the street with a spiteful grin.
‘You must have got me mixed up with someone else. I don’t know what you’re referring to.’ He grabbed the handle of the police-station door. ‘Come on, let’s not keep Anita waiting.’
Jan opened the door, but Stüter grabbed his shoulder. ‘You’re on first-name terms with Ichigawa, I see. You know, for someone who deals with human behaviour day after day, you’re a bloody awful liar.’
After the Chief Superintendent had let go of his shoulder, Jan could still feel the unforgiving pressure of his fingers.
9
Anita Ichigawa.
Japanese father, German mother. Iron will.
Model investigator with the major crimes squad at Koblenz and model person in general. High IQ, former Olympian in judo, expert in Far Eastern poetry.
If she hadn’t made a career with the police, she would certainly have been working at CERN or as a professor at some elite university by now.
Even now, Jan couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t just back in his old neck of the woods – now he had to tussle with her again as well. It had to be some grotesque nightmare. Some particularly cruel instrument of torture generated by his subconscious.
‘As you can see,’ said the Chief Superintendent as they walked through the station, ‘we’re quite small and serviceable here in Hachenburg.’
That was putting it diplomatically. In the narrow lobby they were squeezing through, there was just enough room for a counter and a few yucca plants with dusty leaves. The usual posters on drug prevention and traffic safety plastered the egg-yolk-yellow walls.
‘Koblenz is only a few miles further down the road,’ said Stüter, his hands buried in his trouser pockets. ‘There we’d have more options, the forensics departments on site, the whole shebang. But Ichigawa insisted on hosting the team here. As near to where the bodies were found as possible. So, welcome to our little kingdom.’
He ushered them into a meeting room that had been turned into a makeshift centre of operations. A sheet of A4 paper with the words INVESTIGATION TEAM ALPHABET KILLER was stuck to the door. ‘Stupid name,’ remarked Stüter in passing. Several desks were scattered across the room, in no discernible arrangement. A tangle of cables connecting the computers led across the carpeted floor like roots. Next to a map of the Westerwald area hung a whiteboard and a large screen with a projector aimed at it.
/> Serviceable. Jan remembered the word Stüter had used. It was a joke that the investigation of such a serious case should be coordinated from such a makeshift space.
Although there were more than a dozen officers scurrying around in the divided room, it didn’t take Jan long to spot Anita Ichigawa. As usual, she seemed to radiate her own field of gravity – a source of constant attraction.
She was talking to another officer from Major Crimes. Although she was a head shorter and at least fifteen years younger, she seemed to dominate the conversation effortlessly. She’d always been good at holding her ground with men.
As usual, Anita wore a black trouser suit. Maximum professionalism. The colour black was like a fashionable leitmotif running through her wardrobe. Her discipline when it came to clothes held true for other areas of her life, too: no parties, no interest in films, no distractions. Only music by classical composers.
When she saw Jan, Rabea and Stüter approaching, she abruptly fell silent. Anita’s fine-featured face didn’t seem a day older. She was still enveloped in the scent of Chanel and lemon shampoo. Her eyes sparkled at him in a way he couldn’t interpret.
‘Jan. I’m glad to see you.’
The words turned him ice-cold; she seemed absolutely sincere, not just polite. He had been prepared for anything except her being pleased to see him.
‘As soon as I heard about this strange body being found this morning, I knew we needed behavioural investigative advisors. Good ones. Ones like you. I’m glad I could sort out the formalities with the public prosecutor so quickly.’
Anita’s gaze flitted to Rabea. ‘She’s new, isn’t she? Your assistant?’
‘My partner.’
Rabea, noticing her expression, stepped closer. She and Anita faced each other, trading barbed words of greeting and appraising glances.
‘Jan is a – very interesting partner,’ said Anita, her undertone impossible to ignore.
Rabea visibly stifled a laugh.
‘How do you want to proceed?’ asked Jan, trying to bring the conversation onto safer ground.
‘The most important thing is this: if the killer goes hunting again, I want to take positive action. I don’t want to be constantly on the back foot. Using the profile you provide, we’ll institute a large-scale manhunt throughout the region, the likes of which Germany has never seen. A net we’ll keep tightening – until our man’s wriggling inside it.’
The corner of Jan’s mouth twitched. Anita wanted to use their analysis as a springboard.
*
Rabea and he sat down at their desks, which were placed exactly opposite each other. Rabea switched on her computer and stared at her cathode-ray monitor as though it was a relic from the Bronze Age. ‘Thank God I brought my iPad.’
Meanwhile, Anita had climbed onto an office chair to get an overview of the hopelessly overfull room. Silence fell across the confused groups of officers of all ranks, forensics technicians and people from the prosecutor’s office. Only Stüter continued pacing to and fro in front of the whiteboard, like a tiger in its cage.
‘What are we waiting—’
Rabea didn’t get the chance to finish her sentence. The door swung open and Daniel Köllner burst in, completely out of breath.
‘We’re waiting for him.’ Stüter’s eyes followed the Inspector until he’d sat down at his workspace.
‘Sorry,’ muttered the gangly young man. ‘But I—’
‘Be punctual next time you attend a meeting,’ Stüter interrupted him curtly.
Jan rolled his eyes. The young police officer must have a thick skin if he could put up with this torture day in and day out.
‘Let the man talk!’ said Anita, her arms crossed.
Stüter gave a minute jerk of his head, which could have been interpreted as a nod, and made an elegant gesture in Köllner’s direction.
‘I know who the dead man in the bison enclosure is,’ began Köllner. His voice was trembling, but he grew more sure of himself with every word. ‘I thought his face looked familiar from the newspaper. I made a call in the car and confirmed my suspicions: it’s Leonard Ziehner. A publisher from Bad Marienberg. His wife was just reporting him missing.’ He rubbed the bridge of his crooked nose. ‘When she – when she asked me if her husband was all right, I couldn’t tell her. All I said was that we’d be in touch, and then I just hung up.’
There was total silence in the operations room. Even Stüter was simply staring disconsolately at the carpet. Eventually, Anita spoke. ‘This changes our plans, of course. Excellent work, Herr Köllner. We now know the identity of both victims. Something to show at the press conference.’
‘There’s still time before this evening,’ said Stüter. ‘Why not interview the relatives? Might learn some more information.’
Anita nodded in agreement. It was the first time she and the Chief Superintendent had agreed on anything.
‘I’ll go to see Herr Ziehner’s family.’ Rabea raised her hand. ‘Although I don’t know my way around the area at all.’
Anita leant forward. ‘Not a problem. I’ll go with you.’
‘Then I’ll take Mark Lünner’s family,’ said Jan. ‘If you’ve got no objection, Herr Stüter, I’d like to take Herr Köllner.’
‘You can’t manage it alone?’
‘Somewhere out there there’s a guy wandering around who’s brutally murdered two people,’ interjected Anita. ‘Who’s to say the killer isn’t a family member? It would be silly to send someone in alone.’
‘In any case, I’m only here to advise,’ said Jan, reminding the Chief Superintendent of his own words, and adding sarcastically, ‘Your people should do the real investigative work.’
Stüter grumbled something that sounded like assent.
‘Right, then.’ Anita clapped her hands. ‘We’ve convened the team for less than ten minutes and already we’ve got results. Excellent!’
Rabea winked at Jan across the desks. ‘Anything strike you?’
He thought briefly, then shook his head. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘The victims’ jobs. Editor and publisher.’
‘And the literary quotation—’ Jan mused for a few seconds. ‘Might be something in it, but it’s too prem—’
‘Too what? Too premature?’ She was pulling on her fleece. ‘Our killer’s murdered two people in a single night, so far as we know. That’s bloody quick. And if your supposition is correct, he’s only just begun. We might have no choice but to draw premature conclusions if we want to keep up.’
10
‘You’re Swiss, aren’t you?’
Ichigawa’s first words since leaving Hachenburg. She seemed tense as she steered the Audi along the flat roads, which glittered like rivers in the afternoon sun.
‘What gave me away? The name or the accent?’
Silence had suited Rabea just fine. Her body was crying out for sleep. Arms crossed over her chest, she’d dozed off, listening to a radio report on the murders with half an ear.
Shortly after they entered Bad Marienberg, Ichigawa smiled. ‘The name. Sounds pretty Alpine.’
‘And I suppose my German’s a little broken.’ Rabea sat up straight. ‘How do you and Jan know each other? When he heard your name, he lost control for a moment. That’s—’
‘—definitely not his style, I know. We go back a long way. We were together. Briefly. Less than three months. We met when he was still a police psychologist in Mainz, and he helped the Koblenz team negotiate during a hostage-taking. But I’ve already said too much. I don’t want it spread around.’
‘Understandable.’ Jan Grall and Anita Ichigawa. The sensitive psychologist and the hard-as-nails detective. Rabea tried to picture it. How could that particular combination ever have worked?
‘It’ll already be a struggle for Jan, just being back here.’ Ichigawa ran a hand through her bob.
‘What do you mean?’
Ichigawa gave a knowing smile. ‘No matter what you do here, you can be sure you’ll be
remembered for decades afterwards.’
‘I think that’s what always annoyed me about Switzerland.’
‘How long have you been in Germany?’
Ichigawa had stopped at a red light. On their right was a pedestrian zone, with a row of restored half-timbered houses either side. They stared down like older brothers at a dozen wooden huts in the middle – a small Christmas market. Rabea thought she could smell mulled wine and roasted almonds. Sometimes, on the hunt, you almost forgot about the beauty the world had to offer.
‘Nearly six months. This place reminds me a lot of Switzerland,’ she said. ‘Everybody knows everybody. That can be nice, no question. But I like time alone. And where I come from – Emmental – I always felt like I was being watched.’
‘You don’t get that in a city like Mainz, of course.’ The light turned green, and the Audi climbed the road that led out of the valley. ‘At the moment Koblenz is enough for me, but I don’t want to stay there forever. Why did you come to Germany?’
‘Jan brought me in. He dealt with the red tape. Stood up for me.’
‘Not bad.’ Ichigawa puffed through the gap in her front teeth. ‘He really must have seen something in you. How did he find you?’
‘I was a student at the Bern ViCLAS Centre when I got his call. He was looking for an assistant and heard about me through a friend with the federal police. We always do a few training modules there.’ She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘I think my background piqued his interest.’
‘Your background?’
Rabea swallowed drily. A film started playing before her mind’s eye. A macabre old classic. A horror flick that had premiered twenty years earlier and was still showing in her nightmares.
You’ve got to be strong now, little one. Her parents’ words, always just before the credits. Just before she woke up, drenched in sweat.
‘My path was predestined, if you want to put it like that,’ she said tersely.