by Lars Schutz
The journalist nodded, not looking them in the eye.
‘What you were using to blackmail Köllner—’ Rabea began. ‘It doesn’t matter now whether you keep it quiet or not. Tell us. Then it’s out in the world.’
‘One of my contacts on the drug scene caught him dealing cocaine. Hard to imagine, right? You should probably check your evidence storage room, anyway.’ The journalist swallowed. ‘I – I exploited him.’
‘Fine.’ Ichigawa raised her hand. ‘This isn’t the time for remorse. Instead let’s consider how we can use Frau Schneill’s offer to our advantage.’
‘Take me out of the equation,’ said Jan, initially half to himself. ‘A proactive strategy – with an inexperienced killer, it can provoke a hasty reaction. We’ll give it a bit of time, then say I’ve been taken off the case.’
Anita frowned. ‘What’ll that do?’
‘It’s obvious: I’m “Z”.’
The others were staring, bemused. He sighed. Time to explain.
‘The Alphabet Killer seems to be harbouring an obsession with me, for some reason. The “Z” opposite my hotel room was a clear sign. I’m going to be his last victim.’ He made an expansive gesture. If we take me away – his “Z” – then it might send his whole world spiralling out of control.’
‘But in reality, you’d keep on working for the team secretly?’ Anita was struggling to follow his train of thought.
Jan nodded. ‘I’d stay here, but not go out in public.’
‘How would the killer react?’ asked Anita.
‘Best case scenario, he’d stop the murders. If I’m beyond his reach, the whole alphabet might lose its meaning. Second-best case scenario, he’ll totally lose control, start panicking and make mistakes.’
Schneill piped up. ‘And in the worst-case scenario?’
‘In the worst-case scenario, he won’t let himself be perturbed and he’ll continue as before.’
Ichigawa shrugged and turned to Nora Schneill. ‘Sounds like we can’t lose.’ She shook the journalist’s hand. ‘We have a deal.’
43
‘Fuchskaute. What’s that?’
‘The highest mountain in Westerwald,’ explained Jan to his assistant. ‘An extinct volcano. Although I know a Swiss person is going to laugh at something that high being called a mountain.’
He and Rabea were squeezed into the back seat of Anita’s Audi. His forehead resting against the window, he was looking out at the snow-topped peaks of the Westerwald ranges. ‘What’s the guy called again?’
‘Enno Quester. A tattoo artist. Lives in Breitscheid, works in Montabaur,’ replied Anita.
She still drove in the same way. Always above the speed limit, but fully in control. She accelerated and braked as perfectly as if she’d been commuting along this route all her life.
‘Why are we meeting him at the Fuchskaute? Why not at his studio?’ asked Rabea.
‘He said on the phone that the Fuchskaute is on the route between Hachenburg and Breitscheid. Probably wants to spare us the journey.’
‘Sounds suspicious,’ remarked Rabea. ‘As though he’s got something to hide at home. Didn’t you ask more questions?’
Jan saw Anita roll her eyes in the rear-view mirror. ‘Think I’m naïve? Right after our call I questioned some of his clients, studied his website and called his house. I’m doing my job. The man’s clean. Anyway, this isn’t an interrogation, it’s just a normal conversation.’
‘Sorry,’ muttered Rabea under her breath.
Jan sighed. When it came to intimidating people, Anita was in a class of her own.
‘Anything new on what happened at the hotel?’ he said, changing the subject.
‘The gun was most likely a hunting weapon. The cartridges could have come from a .357 MAG hunting revolver. I’m checking whether anybody in the area has registered a gun of that calibre. What’s odd is that none of the hotel staff or guests noticed anybody. There was somebody at reception the whole time, so he can’t have come in that way. There was no sign of forced entry at the delivery entrance or side entrances. We only have witnesses for the shots and the woman screaming. As though the kidnapper had been in the hotel the whole time.’
‘What are you implying?’
Anita rolled her eyes again. ‘All I’m saying is that we’ve got to check the hotel staff and guests thoroughly. You included. That’s all.’
‘We’re making it too easy for him, much too easy,’ groaned Jan, more peacefully. ‘He’s got away not just with several murders but with the next abduction. And our only lead is the hunting equipment.’
‘What do we really know about this Tamara Weiss?’
‘You’ll soon be able to read about my involvement with her in the report.’
‘I’m serious. We’ve not been contacted by any relatives yet. Not even the publisher she worked for. Who was this woman?’
Jan’s fondness for deduction meant he occasionally extrapolated the lives of strangers in detail from a few clues. Like he’d done with Tamara.
In his imagination, she lived in a small apartment in one of the trendier areas of Frankfurt. She had her own blog, where she reviewed books. Kept a cat she’d named after a literary character, maybe Samsa or Don Quixote. Met friends from university at the weekend to chat about their latest disappointments with men.
A good, tidy life. And if they didn’t act quickly enough, that life would be over.
44
Black leather clothing, a long braid, head to toe tattoos. That’s how Rabea had pictured Enno Quester.
The slightly built man sitting at the corner table in the restaurant at Fuchskaute didn’t fit the tattoo-artist cliché.
With his frame-less glasses, red-and-white checked shirt and crew cut, he could have been a tax consultant – although a few neck tattoos were peeping out from underneath his collar.
He blended seamlessly into the rustic ambience of the restaurant, as though part of the furnishings. Their waitress even greeted him by his first name, reinforcing the impression.
‘This guy is putting the rest of us tattoo artists under suspicion,’ sighed Quester. His voice was barely above a whisper, his local dialect hardly audible. ‘I’m glad you didn’t take me down to the station.’
‘There’s no cause for that.’ Ichigawa took a folder out of her briefcase and handed it to Quester. ‘We just wanted to test your expertise, not whether you’re telling the truth. In that file there are images of the victims.’
She paused briefly. ‘I should warn you that some of them are very disturbing. Please take your time looking at the tattoos. Tell us everything that strikes you. Every detail, even if it seems insignificant in your eyes.’
Adjusting his glasses, Quester leant forwards and surveyed the photographs. His face was unmoving; only a vein pulsed unevenly beneath his left eye.
‘Pneumatic machine,’ he said, concentrating. ‘Cheap model. Outliner brush. Working very softly. The ink hasn’t penetrated far into the skin. Probably the tattoo wouldn’t even be permanent.’ He sighed. ‘But that doesn’t matter, of course.’
‘Are these pneumatic machines rare?’ asked Rabea. ‘Are there only particular dealers who sell them?’
‘I’m afraid not. They’re pretty standard. Some shops only sell to people with business licences, but these days – with auction sites and so on – that’s not an issue any more.’
‘The killer used ordinary fountain-pen ink. What do you think about that?’ asked Jan.
‘Makes me think of prison tattoos. Something improvised about it. Something teenagers do if they want to give it a try. But if you’re asking why the guy used it, I’m not sure.’
Ichigawa hadn’t given up hope. ‘Does anything else strike you?’
‘Yeah, there is one thing that gives me pause.’
There was silence at the table. Only the country music coming softly from the speakers on the ceiling was audible.
‘The lines are halting. Interrupted again and again,’ continued Ques
ter. ‘He must have taken breaks.’
Jan frowned. ‘So, he really is a beginner?’
‘Or the reason could simply be that his victims struggled,’ said Anita, but she noted down the observation.
Quester shrugged. ‘Could be.’
At first Rabea considered this strange detail as unimportant. The quotations proved, at least, that the killer could read.
Ichigawa stood up and shook the tattoo artist’s hand. ‘Thank you, you’ve been a big help. If we have further questions, we’ll call you.’
It was impossible to tell from her voice whether she was disappointed with the results of the short conversation. Everything was so distanced. Frictionless. Utterly unlike with Stüter.
As they stepped outside, Rabea’s phone vibrated. The number on the display had a Montabaur area code. Frowning, she fell back a few paces. Sheltering beside a hut right next to the radio tower, she picked up. ‘Yes? Who is this?’
‘Frau Wyler, right? It’s Chief Superintendent Stüter.’
His voice sounded raw and hoarse. As though he’d been crying for hours. What did he want from her? The sudden call confused her. ‘I thought you were in hospital. How are you doing? Shouldn’t you be resting?’
‘I discharged myself. I’m at home, but they’re not letting me work. I’m no good to anybody if I’m lying in hospital – least of all to myself. I want to get him. For Daniel.’
‘And what do you want me to do?’
‘Listen.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Jan can’t find out about this conversation. Don’t mention me, whatever you do. I’m just asking you to come to my house this evening.’ He gave her the address.
Rabea was of a mind to go straight to Jan. ‘Why all the secrecy?’
‘There are things you should know about Jan Grall,’ he replied tonelessly. ‘Just come and see me.’
He hung up without another word.
Rabea stared at her phone. Her heart was pounding. What was going on with the Chief Superintendent? What did he want?
Jan came up to her. ‘Who were you talking to?’
‘Just a flatmate.’ The answer was out of her mouth before she could think twice.
‘Fine,’ he said, without any hint of suspicion. ‘I’ve got something personal to do. I’m going to get a taxi. If Anita asks about me, tell her I’m not feeling well and I’ve gone back to the hotel.’
Rabea nodded. She didn’t want to believe Stüter, yet Jan’s personal errands were giving the suspicious part of her brain no peace. ‘Okay, but do you really have to come up with a cover story?’
‘I know my night with Tamara means they’ll be going through my life with a fine-tooth comb, but I want to keep at least a bit of it in the dark.’
Jan is every bit as dangerous as the people he hunts. The words popped into Rabea’s head – what Ichigawa had said to her on her first day.
What was Jan hiding?
45
Gero Grall, read the plain gravestone.
Life is finite but memory inexhaustible.
Jan was reading the stone epitaph for the first time. Words that were supposed to alleviate the pain of loss, but ultimately were no more effective than a badly-sticking plaster. If that.
Bad Marienberg Cemetery was above the black Nister river, directly adjoining the main road towards Langenbach.
It had been decades since Jan was last there, at the funeral of a great aunt. He’d not been to his brother’s. By that point he’d been long gone from Westerwald. The empty words, the empty faces – he couldn’t have borne them. Nor the guilt.
The graveyard lay among fields and small copses. A peaceful place with a wide view of the snow-covered valleys.
Twilight was already falling. Jan was totally alone.
He used to hate visiting here. The thought of walking over earth full of skeletons and rotting corpses – many of them people he’d once known – had always sent a shiver down his spine.
Today he was enjoying the quiet and the solitude, far from the never-ending babble of the media.
He’d meant to visit soon after his arrival but hadn’t found the time. Or hadn’t wanted to find the time.
Weeds crept out of the untended, overgrown patch of earth in front of the gravestone. Katharina didn’t seem to care about her husband’s resting place. But could he hold it against her, now that she had Stefan? She had left the past in peace.
He was different. The past had never left him any peace.
He’d bought a bouquet of carnations and lilies, which he laid gently against the grave.
He pressed his hands against the cold stone and shut his eyes. His big brother had been his idol. Full of wisdom about girls, the coolest stuff, life itself. He’d taught him rummy and let him win the first few games, shown him how to skip stones and make dams in streams out of sticks. He’d always included Jan in his large circle of friends, his wide knowledge, his great heart.
Everything about him had been big.
Once he’d been hanging out with Gero and his friends. They’d bumped into a guy who’d hit on Gero’s girlfriend and threatened her. The others had jumped on him to teach him a lesson, but Gero dragged them off, standing between them and the guy. That’s cowardly. All of us against one, that’s just cowardly, echoed his voice in Jan’s head. We can sort it out another way.
That kind of big. Gero had been a role model, but unfortunately an unreachable one. He’d never been able to keep up.
The street lamps flickered above the country road, a pearl necklace of lights. Gloom stole across the valleys like a lurking predator. Time to go.
Jan rose, turning up the collar of his coat.
Three days before the fatal accident, Gero had shown him he was far from the role model he’d always thought.
The bad thing, the really bad thing, was that Jan hadn’t been able to decide for days whether to bring flowers or simply to piss on Gero’s grave.
46
The address was correct. No question.
Rabea put her phone away and walked up to the closed restaurant. Heino’s Den was written in peeling letters above the front door, which was decorated with crown glass. The shutters were drawn down, discoloured like yellow teeth. The terrace was piled with rusty garden furniture.
One of those pubs where old, stooped men had drunk like they were working an assembly line.
Now everything screamed decay.
Was this really where Stüter lived?
Gradually Rabea was regretting coming out there like he’d asked.
Next to the entryway was a dog-eared note that read ‘Closed until further notice’. The menu in the display box beside it dated from 2009. Nowhere was there a bell or a letterbox. Cupping her hands against the glass, she peered inside. Was that a faint glimmer of light in the depths of the pub?
Cautiously she knocked on the glass. ‘Stüter? Are you there?’
Something moved behind the pane. A blur of shadows and outlines. Eventually a figure came to the heavy door and opened it a crack.
‘Frau Wyler. You actually came,’ croaked Stüter.
He pulled the door wide. The Chief Superintendent was wearing a red-and-white-striped bathrobe and slippers. He was unshaven, his cheeks covered in black stubble – the first time Rabea had seen any kind of hair on him. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips inflamed and cracked.
‘You live here?’ she asked as he ushered her inside.
‘Only temporarily. But you know how it goes – nothing lasts longer than a short-term solution.’
The musty stench of the pub enveloped her – old wood, ingrained cigarette smoke and beer fumes.
‘The pub belongs to an old friend. Been closed for ages. But he can’t get out of the lease, so we made a virtue of necessity and I moved in after the divorce. I like it. Made myself comfortable.’
Stüter had pushed most of the tables against the wall, making space for a camp bed and a small group of chairs. Books and clothes were heaped all over the place. On the wall above the
bed hung a poster of Dirty Harry.
‘Want something to drink?’ Stüter went behind the bar.
Rabea sat down on one of the stools, resting her forearms on the worn wood. ‘What’ve you got?’
‘Everything,’ he laughed. ‘This is a pub, after all.’
Above him hung rifle club pennants, most of the years dating from the eighties and nineties.
‘A Coke’ll be fine, thanks,’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect you to be out of hospital so quickly.’
‘I want to keep it under wraps for now.’ Stüter bent over the fridge and took out a 1.5 litre bottle of Coke, plus a bottle of Hachenburg Pilsner. ‘The thing with Daniel – I should never have cracked like that.’
‘It’s only human.’
‘Still.’ As he poured the drinks his hands shook so much that most of the Coke missed the glass. He wiped it down distractedly and handed it to her. ‘Cheers! I’ve never been much good at small talk. Let’s get down to business.’
‘Great – I’m keen to hear what all this cloak-and-dagger stuff is about.’
‘It’s about Grall. I have information that hasn’t reached the rest of the team yet.’
‘What information?’
‘I still have very good contacts in forensics. I was able to intercept some information. Breach of protocol, I know, but I hope you won’t hold it against me.’
‘Whatever you think is right,’ replied Rabea, unnerved.
‘We’re talking about the results from Tamara Weiss’s hotel room. We found a note there from your boss. They’d agreed to meet the night she was abducted. They also found traces of sperm, foreign hairs and particles of skin on Frau Weiss’s underwear. The DNA analysis isn’t complete yet, but we’re assuming they’re from Jan Grall.’
‘We already knew they were intimate with each other. I saw her winking at him over breakfast. I don’t know what you’re getting at, but it really didn’t seem like she was scared of him.’
The Chief Superintendent took a piece of paper from his bathrobe and pushed it across the bar. ‘A printout of the last text exchange from Frau Weiss’s mobile phone.’