The Alphabet Murders

by Lars Schutz

  Timotheus nodded eagerly. He seemed to realise he had an ally in her.

  ‘A man is at his father’s funeral. He meets a beautiful woman and gets on with her incredibly well. But they forget to exchange numbers. One week later, he kills his mother. Why?’

  The Cistercian’s face was utterly baffled. ‘Eh? Why would he do that? There’s no point.’

  Rabea smiled. ‘Fine. Thank you very much, that’s great.’

  ‘It’s obvious. He wants to see the woman again at the mother’s funeral,’ said Ichigawa with a shrug. ‘What’s that test supposed to do?’

  Rabea’s smile broadened. ‘Your answer shows that you think more like a psychopath than Brother Timotheus. You showed no emotion whatsoever. You simply followed an unscrupulous if logical line of reasoning.’

  Ichigawa waved a dismissive hand. ‘Spare me your party tricks. You’re supposed to be analysing this man’s psychology, not siding with him.’

  Of course, the test question was a scientifically dubious little game. Yet it was enough to rattle the Senior Chief Superintendent for a few seconds.

  Still, Ichigawa didn’t need long to pick up the thread. ‘Did you and Frau Weiss see each other again after the walk?’

  Timotheus shook his head.

  ‘Did you know where she was staying?’

  ‘Yes, at the wildlife park hotel.’

  She was taking notes, writing with deliberate slowness and glancing up at him meaningfully as she did so. ‘You have a hunting licence, correct?’

  ‘That’s true, although I haven’t owned a gun for years.’

  ‘Mhm. And what did you do with your guns? Sold them?’

  ‘Gave them away. To Gero Grall, your behavioural analyst’s brother.’

  This time it was Ichigawa’s turn to whisper to Rabea. ‘Gero Grall died in an accident. We’ll have to check what happened to the guns.’

  ‘I know about the accident.’

  ‘Jan must really trust you if he told you that.’ Ichigawa turned back to the monk. She skimmed through the pile of paper, stopping at a dated list. ‘You’re not exactly unknown to the police here.’ She slid the page of numbered images, organised into a table, across the desk. ‘These photographs all date from the time before you entered the order. Back then you were what – nineteen, twenty? Grievous bodily harm. Numerous instances. Rather unpleasant, I’d say. You were a textbook thug.’

  Rabea caught a glimpse of the photographs and instantly regretted it. They showed brutally beaten teenagers, their eyes swollen, cheeks covered in bruises and abrasions, and their lips split.

  Brother Timotheus coughed.

  Ichigawa leant forwards, her eyes ablaze, eager for a confession.

  ‘I – back then I was still – I—’ The Cistercian laid his sweaty palms flat on the desk. ‘I think I’d like a lawyer now.’

  58

  The most gruesome art gallery in the world.

  The thought occurred to Rabea as she paced around her and Jan’s brainstorming room. By now the walls and even the window were papered with countless photographs, notes and documents.

  She threw herself onto the sagging sofa with Tugba Ekiz’s file. Again, she checked her phone. No message from Jan.

  For the umpteenth time she read the report. Her eye was caught by the description of a tattoo on Ekiz’s left upper arm: Bilmemek deðil, öðrenmemek ayýptýr.

  The documents included a receipt from a tattoo studio in Montabaur called Purple Heart. Rabea looked up the website. When she saw the name of the owner, a shiver ran down her spine. Enno Quester. The tattoo artist they’d met at the Fuchskaute. By then it was public knowledge that Tugba was missing. Why hadn’t he mentioned knowing her? Or had he not remembered her? Instantly it struck her as much odder that he’d not invited them to his studio. Rabea took a deep breath. First, she wanted to check what the tattoo meant. Typing it into a translation app, she read: There’s no shame in not knowing, only in not learning.

  A Turkish proverb. It fitted the image Rabea had of Tugba. She had been a committed, almost obsessive teacher who’d passed her exams with top marks. A picture-perfect humanist animated with the belief that knowledge could be imparted even through the thickest of skulls.

  Was it this conviction that would give Rabea the decisive clue and lead her to the killer? Almost any decision a person made could be used to deduce a character trait. Some small psychological basis that inflected every action.

  Including the fatal ones.

  She went through the young woman’s CV, checking once more the list of participants on the literacy course. Concentrating hard, she re-read the background information on the students, most of whom were children. As Jan had already said – nothing suspicious.

  And yet – her theory that the murderer might be illiterate was looking more and more plausible. But if so, then how did the quotations fit?

  What if the killer’s motivation was rage? Rage at everybody who could write? Who had mastered literacy?

  In that case, the tattooed letters made sense. So would the choice of victims. Even the literary quotations, which were mere demonstrations – look, I can do it too! It fitted with his increasing brutality. But that profile fitted no one on the list of course participants.

  Her head was ringing, her thoughts going in circles. Placing the documents on the floor beside the sofa, she closed her eyes for a moment. Still her mind wouldn’t stop whirring.

  Her foot jogged against the Gameboy she’d left here last time. Perfect! Snatching it up, she felt herself growing calmer the moment she heard the Tetris theme tune.

  For the next few minutes, she distracted her overworked brain by piling up blocks. Only once she reached level 12, with seventy-thousand points, did she finally fail.

  ‘Darnit!’ she blurted, before restarting the game and letting her thoughts flow. Midway through level 5, it all became clear.

  She switched off the Gameboy.

  The killer was acting out of rage at everybody who loved and had mastered the craft of writing – and rage’s little brother, its preliminary stage, was shame. Shame at his own failure. His own inability. What if the killer had applied but never taken part? She leapt up from the sofa. Her palms were damp with sweat, her heart racing.

  After a few seconds on Google, she’d found the number of Tugba’s school and dialled. Thank God, a cheery administrator picked up at once. When she heard that Rabea was part of the investigation team, she could barely get out a coherent sentence because of her agitation and sheer sadness about Tugba. ‘Yes, we have a list of all the people who called up but never actually came.’

  She promised to fax the list at once – a reminder that Rabea was in Westerwald. It bordered on a miracle that the secretary hadn’t dispatched a stagecoach.

  Her fingers trembling, Rabea put her phone away and crept out of the room to the fax machine, an ancient monstrosity from the pre-internet era.

  For two minutes she leant against the wall, waiting, then the machine gave a piercing beep. Clattering and jerking, it spat out a sheet of A4 paper.

  Rabea rubbed her sweaty palms on her trousers before picking it up. Fifteen handwritten names, most of which – like the other participants – weren’t German.

  But one immediately caught her eye.

  59

  ‘Remind me again how many people live in Bad Marienberg?’

  There was still dismay in Miriam’s voice.

  ‘Enough,’ sighed Jan.

  He was packing fresh clothes into a holdall. He had no idea how much longer he’d be in Westerwald.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been to a place with so few people.’

  ‘Actually, it’s relatively busy for the area.’

  Miriam slipped theatrically down the wall in the corridor. ‘I can’t take it. It’s Hicksville!’

  He flung out his arms. ‘You’re welcome to stay here.’

  ‘Are you kidding? Diver will kill me!’

  ‘Then it’s settled. Not another word about m
y home town!’

  ‘Oh well. Maybe this Alphabet Killer will get me too.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you don’t fit his pattern. You’re not interested in literature.’

  She balled her fists and planted them on her hips, visibly outraged. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Jan simply grinned and walked back into the living room, the holdall slung over his shoulder. He checked the answering machine.

  Four new messages. The same Frankfurt number had tried three times yesterday but hadn’t left a message. The fourth call, from another number, had been made early this morning. This time, there was a recording.

  ‘Hello Herr Grall,’ came a serious male voice. ‘This is Chief Superintendent Altunbas, Frankfurt Homicide. It’s about the murder of Arne Sapkowski. He was found dead at his practice this morning. Yesterday he tried to call you several times. Please get in touch with me. We’ll need to ask you a few questions as a witness.’

  Jan’s mouth gaped. The people around him were dying like flies.

  What had Sapkowski wanted? He’d never heard the name before. He’d call Altunbas back as soon as his mind was halfway clear again.

  ‘Let’s set off,’ he said, and he could hear for himself how flat and weary he sounded.

  ‘Hey, you’re knackered,’ protested Miriam. ‘Set a good example and all that – no driving while exhausted.’

  He pushed open the front door. ‘I’ve never been a good example.’

  ‘Then don’t give me a lecture if I ever do the same thing.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. You’re too smart to do shit like that. And anyway, I’m not your father.’

  She looked up at him. ‘Feels that way sometimes, though.’

  He gazed at her, at this confused girl who was being dragged by youth culture in so many different directions at once. Her words were the petrol that the fire inside him sorely needed. Maybe in Westerwald she’d take more care of him than he of her.

  Before they got into the car, he checked his mobile phone. A text from Rabea:

  why didn’t you tell me?

  Immediately he called. Dial tone. His throat felt tight. He leant against the roof of the car.

  ‘Jan?’ Miriam rubbed his shoulder. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘I think I’ve made a huge mistake.’

  60

  7th December, evening

  Thick clouds of fog hung in the valleys of Westerwald, pooling in them like water in a gutter. A standing army of grey. Jan felt as though the area hadn’t seen the sun in days.

  After making sure Miriam could check in at the wildlife park hotel, he’d set off straight for Hachenburg.

  Still no word from Rabea. His pulse raced. He shouldn’t have left her alone.

  He thought of the crucial information he’d omitted. How had she found out? Anything, but not that.

  The car rushed past clearings and dells, through which hundreds of police and volunteers in lurid yellow vests were combing, searching for Tamara. For other victims. Or simply for another lead. A police helicopter, engine screaming, was patrolling above the hills. Like a hawk on the hunt for prey.

  Jan focused again on the freshly salted road. ‘In the murder case that has kept Germany on tenterhooks for days, suspicion has fallen on a Cistercian brother from Marienstatt Abbey,’ said a voice on the radio. ‘At a recent press conference, investigators announced that they have significant evidence. The investigation, overshadowed thus far by mishaps and mistakes, may finally be coming to an end.’

  Jan had known Timotheus – or Ben, as he was actually called – since childhood. In his younger years the man had had to endure more than his fair share of tragedies. First the death of his father, then his mother’s Alzheimer’s. He’d started getting violent. Threatening others. Hanging around with a shady crowd. Not until he met Gero had he got back on track, and his death had prompted Timo to join the monastery. It didn’t take a behavioural investigative advisor to exclude him as a suspect.

  His phone vibrated. The hope that it might be a text from Rabea made his heart leap. He picked it up from the passenger seat.

  It was. Her name was glowing on the bright green display of his Stone Age phone. He opened the text, keeping the road in his peripheral vision.

  He nearly jerked the steering wheel.

  The text consisted of a single letter.

  ‘F’.

  61

  A feather mattress. Soft and white.

  Rabea nuzzled it, pressing her cheek against it. She closed her eyes. This was where she wanted to stay. To fall peacefully asleep.

  Around her was the rustling of the forest. The hoarse cawing of a crow. She was naked. Free. Liberated. From everything. The only mark on her pale body a tattoo.

  What had given her the idea to get something like that done?

  She couldn’t remember any more. Yet she was too tired to look. Why the hurry? She’d have it for the rest of her life.

  There was something else. She felt something rough and hard on her tongue. A piece of wood, maybe. She coughed it out, along with a torrent of saliva.

  Sleep. If she went to sleep, deeply and soundly, she’d be warm again. She was utterly sure of that. Sleep tempted her, stroking her shoulders with its velvety fingers. An eternally murmuring lover.

  Yet there was a throbbing pain at the back of her head. Where was she? A brief flash of panic. Her heart rate picked up.

  Then, exhaustion again. Sleep gave a charming laugh.

  Now there were feathers falling from above, too. Fluttering gently. Almost like snow. A soft mattress of snow. What a lovely image.

  Just before the twilight fell, her mind’s last convulsion: you must not sleep.

  Then her father’s voice: ‘You’ve got to be strong now, little one.’

  She’d been strong far too long already.

  62

  ‘Locate her mobile phone right now!’ Jan thumped his fist onto the technician’s desk.

  ‘It’s not as simple as you’re making out.’ The almost anorexic man in his mid-twenties raised his arms defensively.

  ‘Are you even listening to me? Rabea is in mortal danger!’ Jan kicked the desk so hard the tech grabbed his wobbling monitor.

  Panic gripped the young man’s acne-scarred face. His lips quivered. ‘I – I’m sorry – I’m doing my best.’

  ‘Clearly your best isn’t—’

  ‘Jan!’ Anita’s voice whipped through the operations room. ‘Is that any way to address my people?’

  Pumps clacking as she crossed the room, she walked up to him like some goddess of vengeance.

  Something inside Jan broke. She had smashed the last dam holding back his emotions. He planted himself in front of her. ‘Rabea is out there somewhere!’ he yelled, pointing out of the window into the snowy darkness of the night. ‘We’ve got to find her, for fuck’s sake, before it’s too late!’

  ‘It probably already is,’ said Anita, her voice low.

  ‘No!’ he spat. ‘No, she’s still alive. Just like Tugba. Like Tugba. He’s threatening us. It’s only a threat!’

  His knees were giving way, and he sank into a chair with a groan. Rabea was under his protection. He never should have left her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jan, but I’m simply thinking logically here.’ Anita made a clumsy attempt to rub his shoulders.

  Her fingers felt like spider’s legs through his shirt. Half acting like a human – it had never been her strong suit.

  ‘And she really didn’t say where she was going? Who she was meeting?’ he asked.

  ‘Not a word.’

  He shook off her hand, stood up and crossed to Rabea’s desk. Her workspace was unchanged. The same coffee cup, deep black dregs solidifying at the bottom. Resting his fists on the surface, he dropped his head.

  ‘At least we can rule out the Cistercian,’ he said tonelessly. ‘That was a blunder from square one.’

  Anita came and stood next to him, arms crossed. ‘Remember the suggestion that there w
ere two killers? That we might be dealing with partners?’

  He rubbed his stubbly chin – shaving wasn’t exactly a priority at the moment – and considered the question. ‘That would explain the extraordinary frequency, true. The planning. But I still don’t think Timotheus is one of them.’

  ‘No matter who it is or how many there are, we’ll find Rabea.’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune.’

  She put on a smile. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. We’ve got to stay functional. For Rabea.’ She sighed, thinking for a moment. ‘Do you know what’s just occurred to me?’

  ‘I’m not in the mood for guessing games.’

  ‘Somebody said Stüter was here, asking for her. Just after Rabea left.’

  Jan hesitated. Wasn’t the Chief Superintendent still in hospital? Maybe her disappearance was connected not to his secret but to Stüter? Maybe it wasn’t his fault at all? Why else would Stüter have asked for her?

  ‘We’ve got to find out where he is. Right now.’

  63

  Grosse Wolfstein Rock.

  In the middle of the night, it was a shadowy monster of weather-beaten stones.

  The local Tower of Babel thought Rolf Stüter.

  People said the devil had once tried to build a tower to heaven out of basalt rock. As usual in such legends, things hadn’t turned out well for the devil. The tower came crashing down, leaving nothing but a rubble of giant stones that children climbed in summer.

  Turning up the collar of his leather jacket, he fought his way towards the rocks. Snowflakes as sharp as metal splinters blew into his face. The wind was so strong he could scarcely breathe.

  Hopefully she’d be there. If the girl was really out in this, she wouldn’t last long by herself.

  From the first, Rabea had reminded him of his daughter. Of Ida, who was doing a gap year in Australia. From day one he’d kept a protective eye on her, making sure she was as safe as possible at the hotel and the crime scenes. This concern had been one of the main reasons why he’d immediately taken her into his confidence about Jan.

  When she’d left him a few hours earlier, he’d quickly realised she might act too hastily – and alone. An old cop like him could sense impending danger in his bones.