Eternal jf-3

by Craig Russel

  Work it out, he kept telling himself. Work it out. Who was killing the members of the group? It had to have something to do with this place and what had happened here. But who was behind it? Could it be one of the remaining four members of the group? Scheibe found that almost impossible to imagine: there was simply nothing to gain, and there were no grudges, no old scores to be settled. Just a desire to have nothing to do with each other.

  Scheibe felt something chill grip him: what if Franz had not died here? They had loved Franz, they had followed him; but more than anything, they had feared him. What if his death had been a sham, a conspiracy, some kind of deal with the authorities? What if, somehow, he had survived?

  It didn’t make sense, but these killings had to have something to do with what had happened here, on this provincial railway platform, twenty years before. Scheibe already regretted having left that message for Cornelius. He was not going to make it easier for the killer, and he was not going to risk his career by renewing associations that were best forgotten. He had worked too hard for all that he had achieved since the last time they had met; he was not going to give any of it up.

  Scheibe looked at his watch: it was nearly eight. He felt tired and unclean. He hadn’t eaten since the lunch in the Rathaus and he felt empty inside. Scheibe sat on a bench on the platform and gazed blankly out across the tracks, across the flat landscape beyond, across the Weser towards the Luneplatte on the far side.

  He could think this through. That was what they had always relied on him for back then: his ability to plan a strategy in the same way he could plan a building. More than a structure, but every detail integrated. He had been the architect of what had happened here: he had freed himself and the others. Now he needed to do it again. Scheibe reached into the pocket of his crumpled black linen jacket and pulled out his cellphone. No, his number could be traced: he had, after all, only recently been lectured about the insecurity of using a mobile telephone. Scheibe knew he had to play this carefully. He would phone the police. Anonymously. He would do a deal that kept him out of it. Like the last time.

  A payphone. He needed to find a payphone. Paul turned and scanned the landscape around him.

  It was then that the young man with the dark hair stepped out onto the platform. There was no vague sense of recognition. Paul did not struggle with where or when or how he had seen the face before. Maybe because he was seeing it in this context.

  The young man strode across to Paul purposefully.

  ‘I know who you are,’ said Paul. ‘I know exactly who you are.’

  The young man smiled and took his hand briefly out of his jacket pocket to reveal the Makarov automatic.

  ‘Let’s go somewhere more private to talk. My car is parked outside,’ he said, indicating the platform’s exit with a nod of his head.

  8.00 p.m.: St Pauli, Hamburg

  ‘Just let me know if I’m cramping your style.’ Anna Wolff grinned at Henk Hermann as they approached the bar.

  The Firehouse was a large, square-set building in the St Pauli Kiez. Externally it was one of those unremarkable 1950s brick-built buildings that had erupted across Hamburg like weeds on the gap sites created by Second World War bombs. Internally, it was just as unremarkable, but in a totally different way. The decor was the kind of variation on the same theme of generic designer cool that could be found in bars and clubs around the world: an unsurprising, uninspiring, vaguely retro sophistication. Even the music in the background was the predictable chill-out soundtrack. The Firehouse left Anna, who preferred clubs and bars that had more of an edge, totally cold. But there again, it was not aimed at Anna. Or anyone of her gender.

  ‘Very funny.’ Henk muttered and nodded towards the shaven-headed black barman who came over to their end of the bar.

  ‘What can I get you?’ The black barman spoke German that was spun through with something between an African and an English accent.

  In reply, Henk held up his oval Criminal Police shield. ‘We’d like to ask you about one of your customers.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s in connection with a murder inquiry,’ said Anna. ‘We believe the victim was a regular here.’ She laid a photograph of Hauser on the bar. ‘Know him?’

  The barman looked briefly at the photograph and nodded.

  ‘That is Herr Hauser. Yes, I know him. Or knew him. I read about his death in the newspapers. Terrible. Yes, he was a regular here.’

  ‘With anyone in particular?’

  ‘No one special that I know of. Lots of guys in general…’

  The other two barkeepers were occupied and a customer called over to the black barman from the other side of the bar.

  ‘Excuse me a moment…’ While he went over to serve the customer, Anna surveyed the club. Considering it was so early in the evening, and so early in the working week, there was a substantial number of customers. As she expected, it was populated by an exclusively male clientele, but other than that there was nothing to distinguish it from any other bar or club. Some of the men had the business-suited look of having come straight from their offices. Anna found it difficult to imagine Hauser in the club: it all seemed too ‘corporate’, too mainstream. The black barman came back and apologised for the interruption.

  ‘Herr Hauser came in here a lot, but he tended to hang around with younger guys. Much younger guys. I just asked the other barmen about him. Martin says he used to come in a lot with a guy with dark hair.’

  ‘Sebastian Lang?’ Anna placed a photograph of Lang on the counter next to the one of Hauser.

  ‘I wouldn’t know him… Martin?’ The barman called over to his colleague who came over and examined the photograph.

  ‘That’s him,’ the second barman confirmed. ‘They came in here together for a while, but then the younger guy stopped coming. But before him, Herr Hauser used to drink with a man more his own age. I don’t think they were an item, or anything. I just think they were friends.’

  ‘Do you have a name for this friend?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Does he still come in here?’

  The barman shook his head. ‘I couldn’t say when he might turn up. I think he only came in to meet Herr Hauser.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Henk and handed the barman his Polizei Hamburg contact card. ‘If you do see him again, you can contact me on this number.’

  The barman took the card. ‘Sure.’ He frowned. ‘You don’t think this guy had anything to do with Herr Hauser’s murder, do you?’

  ‘At the moment we’re just trying to build a picture of the victim’s last days,’ said Anna. ‘And the kind of people he used to hang out with. That’s all.’

  But, as she and Henk left The Firehouse, Anna could not help thinking that they had built no picture at all.

  9.

  Twelve Days After the First Murder: Tuesday, 30 August 2005.

  10.30 a.m.: Police Presidium, Hamburg

  Fabel phoned Markus Ullrich, the BKA officer, from his office in the Murder Commission. Ullrich sounded surprised to hear from Fabel, but there was no sense of the BKA man being guarded in his response.

  ‘What can I do for you, Chief Commissar? Is this about Frau Klee?’

  ‘No, Herr Ullrich, it isn’t.’ The truth was that Fabel did want to pursue the issue with Ullrich, but now was not the time. Fabel was looking for a favour. ‘You will remember that Criminal Director van Heiden asked about the case I’m working on? The so-called “Hamburg Hairdresser”?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Someone has suggested that I should be looking more closely into the history of the victims. Specifically that there may be some skeletons in the closet dating back to their days as student activists – or later, during the years of unrest. Both were politically active to varying degrees. And I thought that if there were any suspicions about them…’

  ‘… That we at the BKA would have them on file – is that it?’

  ‘It’s just a thought…’ Fabel went on to outline what they knew to
date about both victims.

  ‘Okay,’ said Ullrich. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  After Fabel hung up he went through to the main Murder Commission office and spoke to Anna Wolff. He gave her the details from the Second World War identity card of the HafenCity mummy.

  ‘Could you get on to the state archives and see if we can dig anything up? I’d like to find out if there is any surviving next of kin we should notify.’

  Anna looked at the information Fabel handed her and shrugged. ‘Okay, Chef.’

  Fabel did the rounds of his officers to get updates on progress. The two scalping murders had eclipsed everything else and Fabel was glad that the Kiez brawl killing was the only other continuing case, because it was a comparatively easy one to tie up. Fabel often caught himself thinking like that: grateful that the violent ending of another human’s life was conveniently straightforward and therefore less demanding on his team’s resources. He hated the forced callousness of being an investigator of the deaths of others.

  ‘Still nothing on the phone accounts of either victim,’ Henk Hermann anticipated Fabel’s question. ‘We’ve found no numbers that cannot be accounted for.’

  Fabel thanked Henk and made his way back to his office. It still nagged at Fabel. He had a gut instinct that the victims had known their killer.

  11.45 a.m.: Schanzenviertel, Hamburg

  The room was filled with the rich, sweet smell of incense. The blinds were drawn and the room was illuminated by the soft, dancing light of two dozen candles.

  Beate Brandt sat with her eyes closed, one hand resting on the forehead and the other on the chest of her client. Her hair was long, cascading over her shoulders, just as it had when she was eighteen. But the glossy, sensual lustre with which it had once ensnared men’s hearts had faded over a decade ago. Now it was more grey than black and its sheen had been replaced by a dry coarseness. Similarly, Beate’s dark beauty, which she had inherited from her Italian mother, had faded. The strong bone structure and the fineness of her features remained, but the skin in which they were wreathed had become creased and wrinkled, as if someone had stored a fine painting carelessly.

  ‘Breathe deeply…’ she said to the client, who she reckoned was about the same age as her own son and who lay on his back, his eyes closed tight. ‘We are travelling back. Back to a time beyond life but before death. Only once we confront the life that has gone before can we experience rebirth.’

  She pressed down on her client’s forehead. Her fingers were covered with large rings, some of which bore astrological symbols. Her client had pale, flawless skin and she compared the smooth perfection of his brow with the wrinkles on the back of her hand and the thickening of her once-slender fingers. Why, she thought, do our bodies age, yet inside we feel exactly the same as we did half a lifetime ago?

  ‘Go back…’ Her voice was just above a whisper. ‘Go back to your childhood. Do you remember? Then back further. Further back…’

  Beate had always struggled to make ends meet. Or, more correctly, she had struggled to make ends meet while maintaining a low profile. She had hated the idea of becoming a small-time capitalist but hated the idea of working for someone else even more. Beate also had to think of her son. She had done her best to make sure that he never wanted for anything. As a single mother, it had been difficult for her. And, of course, there had always been the added difficulty of how deeply someone would look into her history when she applied for a job. She had started off with a small fashion business in the Viertel, but, as time went on, it became clear that Beate’s idea of Schanzenviertel chic was out of step – a decade out of step – with what customers were looking for. After the shop had closed, she had struggled to find something that she could do to earn money. Then she came up with the Rebirthing concept. Beate knew it was all nonsense. Some part of her, deep down inside, found the idea of reincarnation attractive – plausible, even – but the whole ‘Rebirth Induction’ thing was a pile of crap. She ought to know: after all, it had been Beate who had invented it.

  She looked down at the client lying on the floor. He was a regular and had been coming for three months. Since Hans-Joachim and Gunter’s murders she had taken the decision to see no new clients. No strangers. The deaths had shocked her. Frightened her. After all, although their paths had not crossed in twenty years, Hans-Joachim had lived only a couple of streets away.

  Now Beate would admit only those clients whom she had dealt with for some time. She had even tried spinning a new thread of ‘group therapy’ so that she would see more than one client at a time. But because of the intimately personal nature of her ‘treatment’, her clients were reluctant to participate in group sessions. Beate’s most inspired idea had been to set up a website through which she could conduct on-line consultations. She had even bought some software which let people type in their dates and places of birth and receive an outline of a likely past life. And all paid for through a secure on-line credit card system. No risk, no outlay, all profit.

  At the heart of Beate’s business was an essentially simple idea: that everyone had lived before, several times, and that there had to be a key to unlocking those past lives. Of course, with an exponentially growing global population, for everyone to have had a past life was a statistical impossibility. Beate, who had studied applied mathematics at the Universitat Hamburg, knew that only too well. But there had been a time, long ago, when she had been prepared to suspend her disbelief in the name of something bigger. Furthermore, the world today was full of people seeking something to make sense of their existence; or wanting to seek refuge in some other truth, some other life: anything that offered them something less banal than their everyday existences. So Beate, the atheist, the rationalist, the mathematician, had established herself as a New Age guru who helped people rediscover their past lives. She had learned the basic principles of hypnotism, although she doubted that she had ever successfully hypnotised a client. It was more likely that they deluded themselves that they were in a hypnotic state so that they could believe the nonsense they spouted about a past life; could believe that it came from somewhere deeper than simply a mixture of imagination, wish-fulfilment and something they had probably read somewhere once. But to cover herself she had talked about ‘guided meditation’, placing the onus on the client for their own hypnosis.

  But the original concept had been flawed: Beate had learned very quickly that once she had helped a client to uncover one ‘past life’ the client went away happy – and a source of income walked out of the door. She had realised that she needed to add another dimension to her ‘therapy’: something that would prolong the course of treatment. It was then that she came up with both the idea for the website and the concept of ‘Whole Person Rebirth’. The principle was that to be ‘complete’ one had to uncover all one’s past lives, combine them with one’s current existence and to then undergo a ‘rebirthing’ where one became whole and put behind everything in the past and began anew. A true new life.

  The irony was not wasted on Beate. Here, in this room within her apartment, she spouted a home-grown mixture of New Age claptrap and psychobabble about reincarnation and rebirth. Like the others in the group, she had reinvented herself, putting distance between herself and her past life. Unlike some of the others, however, Beate had chosen to keep as low a profile as possible. Whereas some of the group had clearly felt immune to discovery, she had sought anonymity. But it seemed that keeping a low profile offered no protection. Hans-Joachim Hauser had always been a self-promoting, self-important egotist; but she had guessed that Gunter Griebel, like her, had chosen to live his life as unnoticed as possible. Yet someone had noticed.

  She cast a glance at the wall clock. This session seemed to be taking for ever. The young patient was convinced that he had multiple past lives to uncover, yet claimed there was some obstacle in the way, something he could not navigate around. Beate sighed patiently and tried to ease him through the years, through the centuries, to discover who and when he had be
en before.

  Sometimes she felt like screaming in the faces of her clients that it was all a sham, a fraud; that there was nothing to uncover other than their own inadequacies and failure to come to terms with the fact that this world, here and now, was all there was to life. It always amused Beate that, in uncovering their past lives, most of her clientele displayed the same lack of chronological and technical accuracy as the average historical-romance novelist. Many clients were middle-aged women who fulfilled some fantasy by remembering a past life as a beautiful courtesan, a voluptuous village maid or a fairy-tale princess. Few ‘past lives’ involved the plagues, diseases, famines and extreme poverty that had been commonplace throughout history.

  But this young man was different. He had approached the whole process with earnestness. From the very beginning he had spoken with conviction about his need to visit a previous life. It was as if he were seeking some form of truth. A real past. A real life.

  The one thing that Beate could not deliver.

  ‘Can you see anything yet?’ she asked.

  The young man furrowed his broad, pale brow in concentration. Beate had noticed how attractive he was from their first meeting. And she had had the strangest feeling that she had known him from somewhere. At one time, she could have had him. At one time, she could have had any man. Any thing. The world had rolled itself out before her, wide and fresh and clean, waiting for Beate’s footfall. Then it had all turned to dust.

  ‘I see something,’ he said hesitantly. ‘Yes, I see something. A place. I am standing in front of a large building and I am waiting for something or someone.’

  ‘Is this in this lifetime, or a time before?’

  ‘Before. It was before.’

  ‘Describe the building.’

  ‘It is large. Three storeys high. It has a wide front with several doors. I am standing outside it.’ The young man kept his eyes closed, but suddenly there was a great urgency in his voice. ‘I see it. I see it all so clearly.’