“How could I miss that?” Hanno replied in a peeved tone. “But Max is still in the field, Alex already went home, and I can’t get away from here.”
“But why . . .”
“Someone has to go down to stop what’s going on. He’ll get himself into hot water otherwise.” This was Sebastian he was talking about, and Lina couldn’t care less about him. On the contrary, she sort of liked the idea of Sebastian getting into hot water for a while. She glared at her boss, who at least had the decency to look away. He was busy! Sure! Counting the pages of a report? Something equally important? Furiously, she slammed the door behind her.
The interrogation rooms where Sebastian had the boys brought were in the basement. Each was sparsely furnished, without windows, with three chairs and a table safely screwed into the floor, video cameras in the corners, and spy-holes on the doors. In front of one of the rooms, Sebastian was loudly quarreling with two colleagues in uniform.
“Man, Sebastian, get a hold of yourself,” Lina heard one of them say. She didn’t know him very well: Stefan Melzer, a calm man with a mustache, approaching sixty, who could easily have played the part of the kind neighborhood policeman in a TV spot. Lina didn’t know the second officer, a younger man, at all.
“The little shit kicked me again, damn it! I can’t just let that slide!” Sebastian cried out.
“My god, the boy’s fourteen! You can’t slap him around like he’s a thug from the Reeperbahn.”
Sebastian shook off his colleague’s hand and ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. He looked up and saw Lina watching the scene, arms crossed.
“What are you doing here?” he snapped.
“Hanno sent me. I’m supposed to help you.” She added sarcastically, “In case you can’t handle the kids.”
“Thanks, I can manage on my own.”
“Sure, by beating them up.”
“I didn’t beat anyone up.”
The two men in uniform looked away. The younger one looked at the floor and Stefan Melzer studied the ceiling.
“Now fuck off.” Sebastian spat at her. He had a look on his face that made her think he wouldn’t mind slapping her around a bit, as well.
“Sebastian, cut the crap! I was sent here to question the boys and that’s what I’m going to do,” Lina said and took a deep breath. “Now, chill out. Grab a cup of coffee in the cafeteria, take a short break, and then—”
“I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job,” he said. His face was red and the arteries in his neck were bulging. “Since you’re dying to do it, why don’t you go in and have the asshole shellac you? Have fun!” With that he took off, flung open the door to the next room, and slammed it noisily behind him.
Lina stared after him, frowning, and then looked at Melzer, who shrugged. He wasn’t going to tell her what had happened here. Lina swallowed her anger and asked. “And who is that dangerous thug?”
Stefan Melzer scratched his head. “Marcel Niemann, fourteen. He was picked up once before, a few months ago, when he was hanging out with some other youngsters. They were running wild at the Tibarg Center, stole stuff and harassed customers.” He pointed with his head at the heavy steel door. “Last Thursday he was at it again. Well, you saw the video from the station. It looks as if he’s the ringleader now, even though he’s the youngest.”
“Any specific offenses?”
Melzer shook his head. “So far we can’t prove anything.” He shrugged. “It’s probably a matter of time.”
“How about drugs?”
“We found some dope on his buddies. He had only cigarettes.”
Lina didn’t believe that the kid would politely decline when a joint went around. It was either a lucky break or he had set up the others.
“Has Sebastian questioned him already?”
Melzer shook his head. “No. The kid made such a fuss when we arrested him that we let him stew for a while.” He stopped for a moment. “When Sebastian went in, the whole ruckus started again.”
Lina nodded. “What was the name again?” she asked, her hand already on the door handle.
“Marcel Niemann.”
The name sounded familiar to her and she mentally scrolled through the list of witnesses in the Birkner case. She remembered Evelyn Riemann, the state councilor. Maybe she was misled by the similarity of the names.
She entered and shook her head when the young policeman wanted to follow her. “Just let it be. Wait outside, okay?” Her colleague shrugged and retreated. He hadn’t once opened his mouth this whole time.
Marcel Niemann slouched in his chair, held his hand to his left cheek, and scowled at Lina. Lina could see a vivid red area under his hand. Sebastian had really hit him hard, even though the youngster was of slight build and only a few inches taller than Lina. Quite frail, actually, which meant that the kid must have street smarts if Melzer’s assumption was right that he had become the boss of the Niendorfer gang. The term Niendorf set off a lightbulb. Antje Niemann—she was that witness from the Waldschänke whom Lina had visited and questioned at home. She had at first thought that Lina had come because of her son. Marcel.
Marcel watched her silently when she sat down at the table across from him. Lina looked back at him without saying anything, either. It seemed to irritate him that she was small, a woman, that she had come in alone, and now wasn’t saying anything. But there was something else, something he was familiar with, though he couldn’t define it. It was the way she looked at him, provoking, testing, questioning, and at the same time conveying a message he couldn’t ignore: Don’t mess with me! He was confused. It was a facial expression he only knew from people he met on the street, people with the same background as his, people who spoke his language. Not something you’d expect from a bitch cop.
“So?” Lina said.
Nothing happened for long moments other than the passing of time. Finally Marcel looked away and Lina took an imperceptible breath.
“You know why you’re here, don’t you?” she asked.
The boy didn’t make a peep. What do I care? his body said, as did the gesture with which he wiped his sleeve across his face.
“What did you do Thursday night after pestering the woman at the Niendorf Markt subway station?”
No response.
“Maybe you took a walk in the woods?”
Marcel looked at her as if she were nuts.
“Did you want to pick your mother up from work?”
He was on guard immediately. “Leave my mother out of it.”
“Don’t worry. Your mother has an alibi. You’re the one who has to explain some things.”
He knit his brow slightly, in a way that might have been threatening if he had been a foot and a half taller and wider.
“Where were you Thursday night between eleven thirty and one?”
A shrug. “No idea.”
“Better think about it. This time we’re dealing with murder.”
He flinched. For the first time, there was something like fear in his eyes.
“Three of you—maybe even four, five, or six—beat a man to death. All I want to know is who exactly did it.”
“We haven’t clobbered anyone. Damn! What kind of shit is this?” His eyes were bigger now and his breathing was frantic.
“Why should I believe you? We have video showing how you went wild at the subway station and harassed a woman. And there’s all kinds of evidence at the scene of the crime. It’s only a matter of time till we know who was there.” It was a cheap trick, but Lina was always amazed how well it worked. Marcel’s forehead beaded with sweat and he fidgeted in his chair.
“We haven’t killed anyone; for real, yo. We weren’t in the woods, either, not really, only in the cemetery. Not even there. We wanted to go there but then that jerk in a BMW almost whacked Macki and so we beat it, sauntered up the Tibarg, but there
was nothing goin’ on, and it was late by then, and then my mom got hold of me and dragged me home.” He finally took a breath. “We weren’t in the woods, believe me, and if there are some kind of prints, then someone’s tryin’ to plant something on us. For real.”
Lina looked at the teen with a frown. She believed him, and she never had thought that youthful hooligans had anything to do with Philip Birkner’s death, but Marcel didn’t have to know that yet. “What’s that with the BMW that almost hit you?” she asked.
Marcel shrugged. “No idea.”
“Well, I’m asking because it might be a witness who could confirm your statement,” she said and then started to get up from her chair, seemingly done with the interview.
“It was a dark one, an older model, BMW 3 Series, one of those cars for old geezers. It had an HSV sticker.”
Lina tried to guess at what age Marcel considered you a geezer, but couldn’t figure it out. “Did you recognize the driver?”
He shook his head.
“License plate?”
“Something with HH.”
How very helpful. How many dark 3-Series BMWs were registered in Hamburg? Definitely too many—even if one limited the search to those sporting a soccer club sticker, HSV.
Lina looked at the boy silently, with an unreadable expression. He stared back, chewed on his lower lip, and his nostrils trembled slightly with each breath. Then he dropped his head and Lina knew that she could get through to him now and that she had to say something this very moment before he retreated again, resigning himself to a fate that had only bad things in store for him, one he was already sick and tired of. She was just bending forward and opening her mouth when she noticed out of the corner of her eye that the heavy iron door next to her was moving. Then it creaked and the moment, that precious moment, was gone. Irate, she spun around, prepared to see Sebastian storming in, but it was just a colleague in uniform who flung open the door, looked from Lina to Marcel and back to her, tersely mumbled, “Sorry,” and slammed the door again.
Lina was boiling inside but tried not to let on. But the teenager’s defense systems were up once again. Again, he didn’t care about anything; let them lock him up for murder. How cool was that, yo. He even looked at her again, his head slightly tilted, his mouth downturned, as if he couldn’t take this short specimen of a cop sitting in front of him seriously anyhow.
Lina studied the slender boy. She remembered his mother, who obviously couldn’t handle him. What about the father, she asked herself, not saying it out loud since she was quite sure that the answer would be another shrug of his shoulders. She couldn’t detain the youngster, didn’t even want to, so she had no choice. She got up with a sigh, nodded, and said, “Okay, that’s it.”
She went to the door. When she turned around, the teenager was still sitting in his chair, arms crossed and lips pressed together. “Are you coming? I’m bringing you home.” That way she could check his alibi with his mother, maybe have a chance to talk to Antje Niemann briefly, possibly prevent something, or maybe change or improve . . . Marcel stared at her with a wrinkled brow and tried to digest what she had said. Bring him home? To his mom? He wasn’t going to the slammer? Shrugging, he got up. Cops—go figure. One clobbers you, the next sucks up to you until you almost soften—and then she even drives you home. Let’s hope with flashing blue lights, yo. Otherwise the whole thing isn’t worth it.
Not a single peep came out of the boy on the entire way out of the station. Not in the elevator when Lina called Hanno on her cell phone and also not when she checked herself and the teen out at the front desk. He stood next to her with knit brows while she was signing the release papers and when the clerk buzzed them out. As they crossed the parking lot toward her car, one could have mistaken them for siblings: Lina, the little sister, trotting half a step behind her brother. Only the hand on his elbow when she discreetly steered him in the right direction marred that picture. Marcel still hadn’t said a word. He looked to the ground, but Lina knew he was checking the surroundings for possible escape routes. Well, that’s par for the course. She pretended not to notice but was prepared if he bolted. She had already clicked the remote to unlock her car when Marcel tore away and tried to run for it. Lina caught up with him immediately and grabbed hold of him.
“Better stay here! We’ll drive now . . . Shoot!”
A hard kick against her shin did only a little damage since she moved away at the last moment. A half turn, a sidekick. He wanted to land a punch, but she grabbed his arm and then the kid was sprawling across the hood of her car.
“Poor aim! And can’t you think of anything else but a kick in the shin?” She let go of him with a sigh. “Come on.” The boy straightened himself, a sullen expression on his face. “You really think we’re that stupid? Don’t you know most cops practice martial arts?”
“Lina Svenson, working tirelessly to fight crime!” The voice behind her made her spin around. Max, having witnessed this little scene, was leaning on a nearby car. She stuck out her tongue and turned back to Marcel. He was wiping off his hands and trotting to the passenger door, which Lina held open for him.
“So what have you been doing?” she asked Max, who had come over. He gave a brief recap of his conversation with Niels Hinrichsen in the Niendorfer Gehege.
“What about the kid?” he said in a low voice, pointing to the teen who was curiously surveying the inside of the car. “Is he one of the dangerous subway thugs?”
Lina nodded. “He’s just a little twerp at the moment, but that can change fast. I don’t believe he has anything to do with Birkner, but if we don’t watch out, he’ll be back upstairs at the precinct in a few years.” By upstairs she meant the homicide division. She looked at Max pensively as if she had to decide something. “Are you free right now?”
“Theoretically, yes. I was going to write the report, but, well, you know . . .” Alex was the only one in their group who actually enjoyed writing reports and filling out forms.
“Then get in the car,” Lina said. “It’s a good idea anyway if someone keeps an eye on the rascal, but keep your mouth shut.” When Max looked at her curiously, she blushed, something completely atypical for her, and added, “I want to show you something.”
Max climbed in the backseat behind Lina, so that Marcel could see him and he could see the boy. The latter seemed to feel uncomfortable, which Lina could understand.
After they had driven for a while, she asked the teen, “Where did you learn to kick?”
He shrugged and glared. “A dude showed me.”
“On the street?”
The boy nodded.
Lina signaled and turned right. They drove in silence. Every now and then she glanced at Marcel. In profile, he resembled his mother and even already had the same tired expression around the corners of his mouth. Before the large intersection where she would have to turn right to reach his home, she slowed down and asked, “Would you like to learn how to do it? I mean real kickboxing?”
She saw him fight with himself. Finally he snorted derisively, “In the police sports club, you mean?”
“No.” She drove even slower. “So, what about it?” She looked at him and detected something familiar in his gaze, maybe herself, a former self or what she might have become.
“Fine, then,” he conceded generously. “I can have a look at it.”
Lina nodded and turned left at the intersection. She could see Max’s raised brow in the rearview mirror.
She knew he would be there. Lutz practically lived and breathed kickboxing and spent every free minute in the dojo in Altona-Nord. He either practiced by himself on one of the few machines they had, or he worked out with his buddies. Sometimes he taught kids and adolescents from the neighborhood—youngsters who knew a lot about beating someone up, but little about fighting fair. Lutz tried to teach them that, combined with the art of defending yourself without killing the o
ther guy right away. Of course, he didn’t tell them that, at least not so openly, since otherwise they’d have disappeared immediately. Most were boys, but there were a few girls, as well. When Lina entered the room that was covered with training mats with Marcel and Max, the boy opened his eyes wide. Inside, a giant was hitting his partner with a series of blows, each of which looked as if it hurt like hell. And they would have, too, if the receiver of the blows hadn’t protected himself with thick foam pads. Lina waited until the giant looked up, and then waved. He said something to his partner, who nodded and disappeared. Then the huge man wiped his forehead with a towel, came toward Lina, and smiled.
“Hey, Lina.” He put his arm around her shoulder and gave her a smooch on her cheek. Then he turned to Max and greeted him with a nod. His smile was a little forced. “I’m Lutz.”
“Max.” Max politely bowed his head. He looked out of place here, with his neat shirt, polished shoes, and jacket, but it didn’t seem to bother him at all.
Lina put her hand on the boy’s elbow. “Marcel, Lutz is a good friend of mine, my trainer.” Marcel had to look up to the more than six-and-a-half-foot-tall man with a chest like a tree trunk. With his short-cropped hair, the dark tattoos on his naked upper body, and his crooked nose, he hardly exuded respectability, but Lina saw the awestruck sparkle in the boy’s eyes. It seemed she had used the right bait.
Lutz scrutinized Marcel: the skinny arms, the cheek that was still red from Sebastian’s slap, the stains on his pants. Most of all, however, he saw an expression around the boy’s mouth, the hint of a blissful smile reflective of all the dreams a boy like him could achieve if only he were more like the hulk in front of him. “Who did ya fight with?”
“The cops nabbed me and one of them clobbered me.” He swallowed. “And she threw me against a car.” He was pointing at Lina.
“And what were you up to?” Lutz asked.
The smile disappeared. “Nothin’.” He looked suspiciously from Lutz to Lina. Was this a setup? Could this type here be a cop as well? But Lutz just snorted sarcastically.
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