Brother Grimm

by Craig Russell

  He took his tea over to the breakfast bar. He took a sip of it. It was too hot and he set it down to cool. Susanne walked into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes.

  ‘You okay?’ she asked sleepily. ‘Bad dream again?’

  He stood up and kissed her. ‘No. Just couldn’t sleep … sorry if I disturbed you. Do you want some tea?’

  ‘That’s okay – and no, thanks.’ She talked through her yawn. ‘I just wanted to check you were okay.’

  Fabel froze as a dark energy coursed through him. His tiredness was gone and he was now as fully awake as it was possible to be. Every sense, every nerve had come alive. He stared blankly at Susanne.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Susanne asked. ‘Jan, what’s wrong?’

  Fabel crossed the kitchen and opened the fridge door. He stared at the pastries. They were delicate: baked apple encased in a light, flaky crust. He closed the door and turned back to Susanne.

  ‘The Gingerbread House,’ he said. But he wasn’t talking to Susanne.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Gingerbread House. Werner said to me that we should be looking for someone who lives in a Gingerbread House. Then I saw the pastries in the fridge, and that’s what reminded me.’

  ‘Jan, what the hell are you talking about?’

  He took her by the shoulders and kissed her cheek. ‘I’ve got to get dressed. I’ve got to go back to the Präsidium.’

  ‘What on earth for?’ she asked, following Fabel into the bedroom, where he hastily pulled on his clothes.

  ‘I’ve heard him, Susanne. All this time he’s been trying to tell me something and now I’ve heard him.’

  Fabel phoned Weiss from his car.

  ‘Christ, Fabel – it’s nearly five in the morning. What the hell do you want?’

  ‘Why do baked goods feature so much in the Grimm fairy tales?’

  ‘What? What the hell …’

  ‘Listen, Herr Weiss, I know it’s late – or early – but this is important. Vitally important. Why are there so many references to baked goods – to bread and cakes, to gingerbread houses and the like – in the Grimm fairy tales?’

  ‘Oh, God … I don’t know … it symbolises so much.’ Weiss sounded confused, as if being forced to search through mental files when still half asleep. ‘Different things in different tales. Take ‘Rotkäppchen’, for example: Little Red Riding Hood’s freshly baked bread for her grandmother is a symbol of her uncorrupted purity while the wolf represents corruption and rapacious appetites. It isn’t the bread he wants, it’s her virginity. Yet Hänsel and Gretel, despite being innocents lost in the darkness of the woods, succumb to their appetites and greed when they come across the gingerbread house. So, in that case, it represents the temptation to sin. Baked foods can represent so many different things. Simplicity and purity. Or even poverty – the meagre breadcrumbs that Hänsel secretly stores to use to guide him and his sister back to safety. Why?’

  ‘I can’t explain right now. But thanks.’ Fabel hung up and immediately redialled. It took some time for the phone to be answered.

  ‘Werner, it’s Fabel … Yes, I know the time. Can you get to the Präsidium right away? See if you can get hold of Anna and Maria as well.’ Fabel checked himself. For a moment he was about to ask Werner to call Paul Lindemann in: the lateness of the hour and the force of habit obscuring, for a second, the fact of Paul’s death a year ago while on duty. ‘And get Anna to contact Henk Hermann.’ He hung up.

  So much death. How did he ever end up surrounded by so much death? History had been his overwhelming love and he had felt drawn to the life of the historian as if his very genes had predestined his path. But Fabel didn’t believe in destiny. Instead he believed in the cruel unpredictability of life: a life where a chance encounter between a young girl student, Fabel’s girlfriend at the time, and a nobody with a severe psychotic disorder resulted in a tragedy. And that tragedy had set in train a sequence of unforeseen events that ended in Fabel’s career becoming that of a murder-squad policeman, instead of a historian, or an archaeologist, or a teacher.

  So much death. And now he was closing in on another killer.

  It was nearly six before everyone was assembled in the Mordkommission. No one complained about being summoned from their beds, but everyone had the bleary-eyed look of the barely awake. But not Fabel. Fabel’s eyes burned with a cold, dark determination. He stood with his back to them, moving his searchlight gaze along the images on the inquiry board.

  ‘There have been times I thought that we weren’t going to get this guy.’ Fabel’s voice was quiet, deliberate. ‘That we were going to see several weeks of intense activity and a pile of corpses, and then he would disappear. Until his next spree.’ There was a heartbeat’s pause. He turned to his audience. ‘We have a busy, busy day ahead of us. By the end of it I intend to have our killer in custody.’

  No one spoke, but suddenly everyone looked more alert. ‘He’s clever. Mad – but clever,’ Fabel continued. ‘This is his life’s work and he has thought it through to the tiniest detail. Everything he does is significant. Every detail is a link to another. But there was one link we missed.’ He slammed his open palm against the first image. ‘Paula Ehlers … this is the picture taken the day before she disappeared. What do you see?’

  ‘A happy girl.’ Werner stared hard at the picture, as if the intensity of his gaze could squeeze more from it that he could currently see. ‘A happy girl at her birthday party …’

  ‘No …’ Maria Klee moved closer. Her eyes scanned the sequence of images, just as Fabel had. ‘No … that’s not it …’ Her eyes locked with Fabel’s. ‘The birthday cake. It’s the birthday cake.’

  Fabel smiled grimly but did not speak, inviting Maria to take it forward. She stepped up and pointed to the second image.

  ‘Martha Schmidt … the girl found on the beach at Blankenese. A stomach empty of anything other than the remains of a meagre meal of rye bread.’ She moved to the next image and her voice became tighter. ‘Hanna Grünn and Markus Schiller … the breadcrumbs scattered on the handkerchief … and Schiller was part-owner of a bakery …’

  As Maria spoke, Fabel nodded across to Anna. ‘Get me the Vierlande Detention Centre. Tell them it’s urgent that I speak to Peter Olsen …’

  Maria moved to the next image. ‘Laura von Klosterstadt?’

  ‘Another birthday party,’ answered Fabel. ‘A glitzy one organised by her agent, Heinz Schnauber. It would have been catered. Schnauber told me he always wanted Laura to feel that it was still her personal birthday party and not simply some promotional event. He said he liked to arrange little surprises for her: presents … and a birthday cake. We need to know who the catering company was.’

  ‘Bernd Ungerer.’ Maria moved along the inquiry board as if she and it were alone in the room. ‘Of course, catering equipment. Bakery ovens … And here … Lina Ritter, posed as Little Red Riding Hood, with a freshly baked loaf of bread in her basket.’

  ‘Fairy tales,’ said Fabel. ‘We’re dealing in fairy tales. A world where nothing is what you think it is. Everything has a meaning, a symbolism. The big, bad wolf has nothing to do with wolves and everything to do with us. With people. The mother is everything bountiful and good in nature, the stepmother is the other side of the same coin, everything in nature that is malicious and destructive and evil. And baked goods: the simple, honest wholesomeness of bread; the lustful temptation of baked delicacies. It is a motif that runs throughout all the Grimm tales.’

  ‘Chef,’ Anna called over to Fabel, her hand shielding the mouthpiece of the phone. ‘The custody officer wasn’t happy about it, but I’ve got Olsen on the line.’

  Fabel took the handset.

  ‘Olsen, this is your chance to put yourself completely in the clear for these killings. You remember we talked about Ungerer, the equipment salesman?’

  ‘Yeah …’

  ‘What was it that Hanna said about the way he looked at her?’

  ‘What … I dunno … oh yeah, that his
eyes were all over her.’

  Yes, thought Fabel, and those eyes were gouged out and ended up all over someone else.

  ‘Was there anyone else in the bakery who was attracted to Hanna?’

  Olsen laughed. ‘Most of the male staff, probably.’

  ‘But was there anyone in particular?’ Fabel’s tone was impatient. ‘Someone who might have made a nuisance of himself?’

  There was a silence at the other end of the phone.

  ‘Please, Herr Olsen. This is very important.’

  ‘No … no, I think that her boss, Herr Biedermeyer, the Chief Baker, was very strict about that kind of thing. She even complained to him about Ungerer. He said he would have a word with Frau Schiller.’

  It was Fabel’s turn to fall silent.

  ‘Is that what you want to know?’ Olsen said uncertainly. ‘Does that put me in the clear?’

  ‘Perhaps … probably. Let me get back to you.’ Fabel hung up. ‘Get on to the Kassel KriPo,’ he told Anna ‘Find out if Martha Schmidt had been to any kind of birthday party or catered function in the few weeks immediately before she was abducted.’

  ‘Okay, Chef, but given her family background that would seem unlikely. I don’t see her junkie parents being organised or interested enough to accept an invitation and take her to a party.’

  ‘The sad thing is, Anna, Martha maybe took care of that kind of thing herself. She was probably the closest thing to a responsible adult in her family.’ Fabel sighed. The image of a shabby Martha Schmidt arriving, alone and without a present, at a birthday party stung him. ‘The other thing I’d like you to do is contact the Ehlers family – they know you – and find out where Paula’s birthday cake came from.’ He called over to Maria Klee. ‘Maria, I want you to get in touch with Heinz Schnauber, Laura von Klosterstadt’s agent, and find out who he got to do the catering for her party. Again I want to know where the cake came from.’

  58.

  10.00 a.m., Friday, 30 April: Backstube Albertus, Bostelbek, Heimfeld, Hamburg

  Fabel had the answers he needed. Or enough of the answers he needed. The Kassel police had been, so far, unable to confirm whether or not Martha Schmidt had been at a birthday party before she was abducted. Anna had also found out that Martha’s mother had never returned home from her visit to identify her daughter. It annoyed Fabel that the Mordkommission had to find out from a distant police force that Ulrike Schmidt had committed suicide while still in Hamburg: information that he should have received from the Polizeidirektion involved. Once the annoyance that there had been such a communications breakdown within the Polizei Hamburg subsided, Fabel remembered how Anna had been so hard on Ulrike Schmidt, simply taking her for a heartless, self-centred junkie. She had been a mother after all, in her own way.

  Anna had contacted the Ehlerses, who had confirmed that Paula’s cake had been supplied by the Backstube Albertus. Maria’s check revealed that Heinz Schnauber had arranged for a vast, ornate cake to be custom-made for Laura von Klosterstadt. It hadn’t, however, come from the caterers: he had organised it himself with a specialist bakery who had delivered the cake directly. The bakery had been the Backstube Albertus.

  The girl behind the reception desk in the Backstube Albertus was clearly unsettled by the sudden presence of so many police officers. When Fabel held out his oval Kriminalpolizei disc and asked if Frau Schiller was in she simply nodded.

  Fabel had stationed uniformed SchuPo officers at the main entrance of the bakery, as well as at its fire exits and the delivery bay. Anna Wolff and Henk Hermann waited down on the bakery floor. The air was rich with the odours of dough and warm bread, but when Fabel, Werner and Maria entered Vera Schiller’s office it still had the hard, functional feel of industrial administration. And Markus Schiller’s desk still had the look of recent abandonment. Vera Schiller stood up, an incandescent fury in her eyes.

  ‘What is the meaning of this? I demand to know why you have barged into my premises … into my office …’

  Fabel held up a hand, and when he spoke it was with a quiet, calm, authority. ‘Frau Schiller, we have some very important questions for you and your staff. I know this has been a distressing time for you. Please don’t make things any more difficult than they have to be.’

  Vera Schiller sat back down, but her pose remained tight, rigid. The dark fire still burned in her eyes.

  ‘Do not presume that you know the slightest thing about me, Herr Kriminalhauptkommissar. You don’t know anything about me at all.’

  Fabel sat down opposite her. ‘That’s as may be. But there is something I do know: seven murders have been committed … perhaps even eight. Each of them the most horrific murder, including your husband’s. And each of them is connected to the Backstube Albertus.’

  ‘In what way connected?’ Vera Schiller looked as if a sharp jolt of electricity had passed through her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Laura von Klosterstadt. You must have read about her murder. Yet you didn’t think to advise us that you had supplied the cake for her birthday celebrations.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. We didn’t supply a cake for her. I would have remembered.’

  Fabel gave her the dates. A computer sat, slightly off to one side, on her desk. She punched some keys on her keyboard.

  ‘No, nothing. You can see for yourself.’ She swivelled the screen towards him.

  ‘That’s it.’ Fabel pointed to an entry on the table displayed on the screen. ‘It’s in the name of Heinz Schnauber. He’s Laura von Klosterstadt’s agent.’

  Vera Schiller peered at the entry. ‘Oh yes, a large cake. A special. Plus a full delivery of bread rolls and pastries. I remember that order, but he didn’t tell me it was for the von Klosterstadts.’

  ‘Who didn’t?’ asked Fabel. But already he had in his mind the image of huge hands working with incongruous delicacy.

  ‘Herr Biedermeyer, of course. Our Chief Baker.’ She opened her desk drawer and pulled out a heavy ledger. She flicked through the pages, checked the computer screen again, then ran a red-varnished fingernail down a column. ‘Yes … here it is … Herr Biedermeyer delivered the order himself. He’s very thorough.’

  Fabel looked over his shoulder to Werner and Maria.

  ‘May I look at your delivery ledger?’ he asked Frau Schiller. She held his gaze for a moment, but the anger had subsided. She turned the ledger around so that it faced Fabel. He took his notebook from his pocket and checked the date of Martha Schmidt’s disappearance. Then he flicked back through the pages and found the date he sought. The moment seemed to stretch and an electric current now arced in the nape of his neck. ‘Herr Biedermeyer takes time out from his supervisory duties to make deliveries like this?’ He pointed to the entry in the ledger.

  ‘Yes. Well, in cases like this, he does. The Konditorei Wunderlich is a very big customer of ours. Herr Biedermeyer ensures that they feel they’re getting attention from a senior level.’

  ‘And the Konditorei Wunderlich is in Kassel?’ Fabel heard Werner and Maria already moving towards the door before he received an answer.

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Does Herr Biedermeyer use one of your panel vans to make his deliveries?’

  ‘Sometimes. Yes. Why are you asking about Herr Biedermeyer?’

  Fabel ignored the question. ‘Is Herr Biedermeyer here just now?’

  ‘He’s on the production floor –’

  Before Frau Schiller had time to finish her answer, Fabel had risen from his seat and was following his officers down the stairs.

  Just as Fabel remembered from the first time he had seen him, Biedermeyer was leaning over, placing a small floral decoration on a cake. Again it seemed an impossibly delicate operation for his huge, heavy hands and the icing flowers looked tiny and fragile between his massive forefinger and thumb. As he saw the group of police officers approach him, he straightened up and his good-natured features broke into a broad grin. Anna and Henk broke off from the advancing group and started t
o usher the other workers out of the production hall. Biedermeyer watched with amusement.

  ‘Hello, Herr Kriminalhauptkommissar. Excuse me a moment, I just have to put the last two flowers on this cake.’ Again the forefinger and thumb picked up a decoration from the palm of his other hand and placed it on to the cake. He repeated the operation with the final flower. Straightening up his huge frame, Biedermeyer took a step back to survey his handiwork and said, ‘There!’ He turned back to Fabel. ‘Sorry to keep you, but I had to finish that.’ The smile across his big face remained friendly, warm almost, and the creases around his eyes deepened. ‘I like to do things just right. Get them finished properly. Perfectly. With something like this, I always feel that the detail is everything.’ He looked at the other officers and then back to Fabel. ‘But, there again, I think I’ve already proved that, haven’t I? Did you like my work, Herr Hauptkommissar? Did it amuse you?’

  Fabel’s hand moved to his hip and he took his pistol from its holster. He didn’t raise it, but kept it at his side, ready. Biedermeyer looked at the gun and shook his head, as if disappointed.

  ‘There’s no need for that, Herr Fabel. No need at all. I have finished my work. I have done all I set out to do.’

  ‘Herr Biedermeyer –’ Fabel began to say, but Biedermeyer held up a hand, like a traffic cop stopping oncoming vehicles. He kept smiling, but his size, his sheer bulk was more threatening than any expression.

  ‘Now, Herr Fabel, you know that is not my real name, don’t you? After all that you’ve seen?’