Brother Grimm

by Craig Russell

  ‘What – “dein Märchenbruder”?’

  ‘Yes …’ Fabel sensed an unease in Weiss’s voice. ‘“Your Fairy Tale Brother.” As you probably know, Jacob died four years before Wilhelm. Wilhelm gave an impassioned eulogy at Jacob’s funeral. He called him his Märchenbruder … his Fairy Tale Brother. Shit, Fabel, this maniac thinks he and I are in this together.’

  Fabel drew a deep breath. There had been a partnership behind the killings all along. And Weiss had been the other partner. The only thing was Weiss hadn’t known about it.

  ‘Yes, Herr Weiss. I rather think he does.’ Fabel paused. ‘You know how you have your theory of making fiction real? About allowing people to “live” in your stories?’

  ‘Yes – what about it?’

  ‘Well, it looks as though he’s written you into his.’

  50.

  9.45 a.m., Wednesday, 21 April: Institut für Rechtsmedizin, Eppendorf, Hamburg

  Fabel hated the mortuary.

  He hated being present at autopsies. It was not so much the natural physical revulsion to gore, although that played its part by churning nauseatingly somewhere between his stomach and his chest; it was more the inexplicability of how a human being, the centre of its own vast and complex universe, suddenly became just so much meat. It was the very inanimateness of the dead – the sudden, total and irrevocable destruction of personality – that he hated to face. In every murder case, Fabel sought to keep something of the victim alive in his mind, as if he or she were still living but in some other, distant room. To him they were wronged people for whom he sought some kind of justice, as if it were a debt to the living. Even visiting the scene of death, or reviewing photographs of the fatal injuries didn’t seem to detract from that sense of a person. But, for Fabel, watching someone’s stomach contents being soup-ladled into a weighing dish turned a person into a corpse.

  Möller was on form. As Fabel entered the post-mortem exam room, Möller regarded him with his practised disdainful expression. He was still in his blue autopsy coveralls and the disposable pale grey plastic apron had traces of smeared blood on it. The stainless-steel autopsy table was empty and Möller was almost absent-mindedly hosing it down with its attached spray head. Something hung in the air, however. Fabel had discovered long ago that the dead haunt not with their spirits, but with their odours. Möller had clearly only just concluded his journey through the mass and matter of what had once been a human being called Bernd Ungerer.

  ‘Interesting,’ Möller said, idly watching the water swirl pink as it washed away the traces of blood towards the drain. ‘Very interesting, this one.’

  ‘How so?’ asked Fabel.

  ‘The eyes were removed post-mortem. The cause of death was from a single knife blow to the chest. Classic, really – under the sternum at an upward angle and straight into the heart. Your gentleman gave the knife a twist, clockwise, almost forty-five degrees. That, effectively, devastated the heart and the victim would have been dead within seconds. At least he didn’t suffer much and wouldn’t have known anything about the eyes being removed. Which was done manually, by the way. No evidence of an instrument having been used.’ Möller switched off the spray and leaned on the edge of the table. ‘There were no defensive wounds. None whatsoever. No nicks or cuts on the hands or forearms and there is no other evidence of trauma. Or of a pre-mortem struggle or fight.’

  ‘Meaning that our victim was taken totally by surprise or that he knew the murderer, or both.’

  Möller straightened up again. ‘That’s your area, Herr Hauptkommissar. I report the facts, you draw the conclusions. But there are quite a few other things about this gentleman that you may find interesting.’

  ‘Oh?’ Fabel smiled patiently, resisting the temptation to tell Möller to get on with it.

  ‘For a start, Herr Ungerer was prematurely grey and dyed his hair dark – unlike our own dear Chancellor, of course. But it was what I found under the scalp that interested me more. Your killer didn’t exactly cut Herr Ungerer’s life short. He merely beat the grim reaper to it by a few months.’

  ‘Ungerer was ill?’

  ‘Terminally. But he may well have been unaware of it. There was a large glioma in his cerebrum. A brain tumour. Its size would suggest that it had been growing for some time and its location would lead me to think that the symptoms could have been misleading.’

  ‘Can you tell if he was he being treated for it?’

  ‘No, not that I can see. There was no evidence of anti-cancer treatment in the system – nor of cortisone, which is normally prescribed in such cases to relieve the swelling of brain tissue. Most importantly, there was no evidence of surgery, and that is the first line of defence against this type of tumour. I need to get a full hystology on the glioma, but it looks to me like an astrocytoma – a primary tumour. And because it was a primary tumour, there would have been nothing elsewhere in the body to flag up to his doctor that there might be a problem. Brain tumours are more often secondary to cancers elsewhere in the body, but not this baby. And, here’s a scary thought for you, he was the right age for it. Middle-aged men are the most likely to get these high-grade aggressive primary tumours.’

  ‘But surely he must have had symptoms … headaches?’

  ‘Probably, but not necessarily. Brain tumours have nowhere to go. It’s the one part of the body totally encased by bone, so as the tumour grows so does the pressure inside the skull and on the healthy brain tissue. It can cause severe headaches that get worse when one lies down, but not always. But, as I told you, the position of Herr Ungerer’s tumour, despite it being reasonably fast-growing, was such that the damage was being done gradually. And that means the symptoms may have been more subtle.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Personality changes. Behavioural changes. He might have lost his sense of smell – or suddenly have smelled pungent odours that were not there. He might have had pins and needles down one side of his body, or frequently felt nauseated. Or, conversely, another common symptom can be sudden vomiting without any warning nausea beforehand.’

  For a moment Fabel thought over what Möller had told him. He remembered what Maria had said about her conversation with Frau Ungerer, how she had described Ungerer’s change of personality. About how his sexual appetite had become insatiable; how a faithful, loving husband had become a lascivious lecher and serial adulterer. How he had become ‘Bluebeard’. When Fabel had heard that, along with Maria’s description of the ‘forbidden’ basement and the chest within, he had felt ice crystals form in his veins. Another fairy-tale link, except ‘Bluebeard’ was a Perrault story, French, but it did have a German, Grimm equivalent in ‘Fitcher’s Bird’. This killer knew Ungerer. Or, at least, he knew enough about him to recognise him as a perfect choice to fit with his insane Grimm-story-driven theme.

  ‘Could it have manifested itself in the victim’s sexual behaviour?’ He outlined to Möller what they knew about Ungerer’s dramatic change.

  ‘It could have,’ said Möller. ‘If there was a change as dramatic as that which you’ve described, then I would say it isn’t coincidental with the tumour but almost certainly consequential. We think that sex is a physical thing. It’s not. In the human animal it’s all up here.’ Möller tapped his temple with his forefinger. ‘Change the brain’s structure or chemistry – and the victim’s tumour would have most likely changed both – and all kinds of personality and behavioural changes take place. So yes, it is entirely possible that it turned your sexually moral, married, family-orientated man into a lecherous wolf.’

  As he drove back to the Präsidium, the April sun shone cheerfully upon Hamburg. The city looked bright and fresh and eager for the summer to come. But Fabel saw none of this. All he was aware of was the dark, menacing presence of a psychotic who killed and mutilated in a search for some kind of twisted literary or cultural verity. He was close. So close, Fabel could almost smell him.

  51.

  9.30 p.m., Thursday, 22 April: Altona, Hamburg />
  Lina Ritter decided, as she struggled into the costume, that she was getting too old for this. She was too old for this. It had been her career for nearly fifteen years now and, at thirty-four, enough was enough. After all, this was a game for younger women. She was being forced more and more to ‘specialise’: to cater for the more bizarre and exotic tastes of specific clients, and the role of a dominatrix had suited her age better. And anyway, there was no fucking involved most of the time: you got to order some fat businessman about for half an hour, whack him on the arse if he was too slow following your instructions and then tell him how bad he was and how angry you were as he jerked himself off. It paid reasonably well, the health risks were fewer and her clients, as their punishments, often did all her housework for her. Tonight would be harder work, however. The guy who had booked her had given her a wad of cash in advance. Then he had made his appointment for tonight, with precise instructions that she must wear the outfit he brought for her. She knew, from this ridiculous bloody costume, that she wasn’t going to be the dominant partner this time and had resigned herself to having to fuck the big guy.

  He had arrived bang on time, and now he waited for her in the bedroom, while she squeezed into the outfit he had brought. It had clearly been meant to fit someone a size or two smaller than Lina. The things a girl had to do to make a living. Lina had forgotten just how big her customer was. Big, but quiet. Almost shy. He wouldn’t give her any trouble.

  Lina walked into the bedroom and twirled around. ‘You like?’ She stopped mid-twirl as she saw him. ‘Oh … I see you’ve got a special costume too …’

  He was standing by the bed. He had switched off all but the small bedside lamp behind him and he stood in half-silhouette. Everything in the room seemed dwarfed by his dark bulk. He was wearing a small rubber mask, like a child’s mask, in the shape of a wolf’s face. The wolf’s features were distorted as the tiny mask had been stretched across the too-big face. Then Lina realised that he wasn’t wearing some kind of skintight costume, as she had first thought, but that his entire body, from his ankles to his throat and down his arms to his wrists, was covered with tattoos. All words. All in the old pre-war script. He stood massive and silent, with that stupid mask and his tattoo-covered body, the light behind him. Lina realised that she was, now, afraid. Then he spoke.

  ‘I’ve brought you a present, Gretel,’ he said, his voice muffled by the rubber mask.

  ‘Gretel?’ Lina looked down at her costume; the one he had asked for. ‘This isn’t a Gretel outfit. Have I got it wrong?’

  The head behind the too-small rubber wolf mask shook slowly. He stretched out his hand, holding a bright blue box tied with a yellow ribbon.

  ‘I’ve brought you a present, Gretel,’ he repeated.

  ‘Oh … oh, thank you. I like presents.’ Lina performed what she considered a coquettish curtsey and took the box. She did her best to conceal that her fingers trembled as she undid the ribbon. ‘Now … what have we here?’ she said as she lifted the lid from the box and looked in.

  By the time Lina’s scream hit the air, he had already crossed the room to her.

  52.

  9.30 p.m., Thursday, 22 April: Polizeipräsidium, Hamburg

  Fabel stood facing the inquiry board, leaning on the table in front of it. He was looking at the board but wasn’t seeing what he wanted, what he needed to see there. Werner was the only other person in the office and sat on the corner of the table. His wide shoulders were slumped and his face was pale, exaggerating the vividness of the bruising on his head.

  ‘I think you should call it a day,’ said Fabel. ‘First day back and all that.’

  ‘I’m okay,’ said Werner, but without much conviction.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Fabel watched Werner leave and then turned back to the inquiry board. The killer had referred to Jacob Grimm gaining folkloric wisdom from Dorothea Viehmann. That he had had a similar experience. With whom? Who had passed on the tales to him?

  Fabel scanned the images of Weiss, Olsen and Fendrich he had placed on the board. Old women. Mothers. Weiss had an influential Italian mother. He didn’t know anything about Olsen’s parentage, but Fendrich clearly had had a close relationship with his mother until she had died. And she had died shortly before the killings took place. Weiss and Olsen now seemed to be out of range of Fabel’s suspicion, so all that left was Fendrich. But as soon as you took a closer look at him, it didn’t make any sense. Fabel looked at the three men. Three men as different from each other as it was possible to be. And it looked like none was the right man. Fabel became aware that Anna Wolff was now by his side.

  ‘Hi, Anna. You finished with Olsen?’ he asked. Anna shook her head impatiently. She held up the photograph of the latest victim, the eyeless Bernd Ungerer.

  ‘There’s a link,’ Anna’s voice was tensed with controlled excitement. ‘Olsen recognised Ungerer. He knows him.’

  Olsen was still sitting at the table in the interview room but his demeanour, his whole body language had changed. It was eager, almost aggressive. His lawyer, however, looked much less chipper. After all, they had been cooped up with tenacious little Anna Wolff for nearly four hours.

  ‘You realise, Herr Kriminalhauptkommissar, that in trying to help you with your inquiry my client is risking incriminating himself further.’

  Fabel nodded impatiently. ‘Let’s just hear what Herr Olsen has to say about his relationship with Herr Ungerer.’

  ‘I didn’t have no relationship with Ungerer,’ said Olsen. ‘I only saw him a couple of times. He was a salesman. A smarmy prick.’

  ‘Where did you see him?’ asked Anna.

  ‘The Backstube Albertus. He sold this really fancy Italian bakery equipment. State-of-the-art shit. He had been hanging around Markus Schiller for months, trying to persuade him to buy new ovens. He and Schiller got on really well – two smarmy bastards together. Ungerer was always taking Schiller out for expenses-paid lunches and that sort of thing. He was barking up the wrong tree, though. It was Schiller’s wife that had all the say, all the cash and, from what I can gather, all the balls.’

  ‘Exactly where and when did you say you saw him?’

  ‘I just saw him a couple of times when I was picking Hanna up from the bakery.’

  ‘You seem to have picked up a great deal of information about him, considering you only saw him in passing.’

  ‘Hanna told me all about him. He was always making eyes at her. Every time he came into the place. He was married and everything but he had a reputation for chasing skirt. A sleazeball, was how Hanna described him.’

  ‘You never spoke to him directly?’

  ‘No. I would have … had a quiet word, if you know what I mean. But Hanna told me to leave it be. She’d already complained to her boss about Ungerer, anyway.’

  ‘But Hanna had nothing to do with him, in or outside work?’

  ‘No. She said he gave her the creeps, the way his eyes were never off her. Mind you, I can’t for the life of me see the difference between Ungerer and Markus Schiller. Both slimy creeps. But Hanna saw something, I guess.’

  Fabel, who had let Anna do all the talking so far, leaned forward in his chair. ‘Peter, you are the link between three out of five murder victims …’ He sifted through the photographs on the table and placed the images of Paula Ehlers, Martha Schmidt and Laura von Klosterstadt in front of him. ‘Do any of these people mean anything to you?’ He put names and locations to the faces.

  ‘The model. I know her. I mean, I know about her, her being famous and everything. But no. I don’t know any of them other than that.’

  Fabel watched Olsen as he spoke. He was either telling the truth or he was a clever liar. And Olsen wasn’t that skilled. Fabel thanked Olsen and his lawyer and had Olsen returned to the holding cells.

  Fabel remained in the interview room with Anna. They had a link. At last there was a line they could follow. The frustration lay in not being able to find a further link: that next connection whic
h would take them closer to their quarry.

  Fabel phoned his mother. After talking to her for a minute he asked to speak to Susanne. He explained that he had sent a copy of the letter over to the Institut für Rechtsmedizin, but he took her through it on the phone, stressing the Dorothea Viehmann mention and the Märchenbruder signature, explaining what Weiss had told him about both.

  ‘There is a possibility, I suppose,’ said Susanne. ‘It could be that a mother or some other older woman is or was a dominant part of the killer’s background. But, equally, the Märchenbruder reference could suggest that a brother has played a big part of his life and he’s now transferring this on to Weiss. I’ll have a proper look at the letter when I get back on Wednesday, but I don’t think I’ll get much more out of it.’ She paused. ‘Are you okay? You sound tired.’

  ‘It’s just the drive and too little sleep catching up on me,’ he said. ‘Are you having a good time?’

  ‘Your mother’s great. And Gabi and I are really getting to know each other. But I miss you.’

  Fabel smiled. It was nice to be missed. ‘I miss you too, Susanne. I’ll see you on Wednesday,’ he said.

  After Fabel hung up he turned back to Anna, who was grinning in a way that said ‘Aw … sweet.’ Fabel ignored her smile.

  ‘Anna …’ His tone was contemplative, as if the question was only half-formed as he began to speak. ‘You know how Fendrich’s mother is dead?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Well … because he told me. I didn’t check officially – I mean, why would he lie?’ Anna paused, as if processing the thought. Then something sharp glinted through the tiredness in her eyes. ‘I’ll check it out, Chef.’