by Craig Russel
And that he had got away with it.
Midnight: Grindelviertel, Hamburg
As Fabel was driving home from the Police Presidium, Leonard Schuler was sitting in his one-bedroomed Grindelviertel apartment, counting his blessings. He had not been charged with anything. He had admitted to stealing the bike, to going out equipped to break into houses that night but, just as the older cop had said, they had not been interested in any of that. The older cop had really rattled Schuler with his talk of hanging him out as bait for the nutter who was scalping these guys. But even if Leonard had been scared, he had stayed smart: he knew not to give them any more than the absolute minimum. The reason the older cop’s threat had scared him so much was because Leonard had got a much better look at the guy in the apartment than he had admitted. And the guy in the apartment had got a good long look at Schuler.
It had been Schuler’s intention to break into the flat if there had been no one at home. He had planned his getaway with slightly more foresight than usual. Having prised open the lock on the bike, he had left it propped against the wall of the alley before slipping around to the courtyard. It had not been too dark that night, but when Leonard had sneaked around to the back of the apartment the height of the buildings surrounding the yard had cast it into dark shadow. It had been a gift to a burglar, thought Schuler, but one of the occupiers had obviously been security conscious and a motion-sensitive security light had suddenly flooded the small courtyard with blazing light. Schuler had been temporarily dazzled and had taken a blind step forward. The recycling bins must have been too full because he had knocked over some bottles that had been set beside the bins, causing them to clatter loudly on the cobbles of the courtyard.
Schuler had taken a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the sudden bright light. It was then that he had seen the two men. They had clearly been disturbed from their conversation by Schuler’s clumsiness and had come to the window and looked out directly at him – he was only a metre and a half away. There had been an older guy, whom he now knew to have been Hauser, and a younger one. It had been the expression, or lack of it, on the face of the younger man that had really spooked Schuler. Even more so now, knowing as he did what this individual had gone on to commit.
He had looked into the dead, expressionless face of a killer.
Now, when Schuler thought back to that stare, to that dreadful calm on the face of a man who must have known what horrors he was about to perpetrate, it chilled him to the core.
The older cop, Fabel, had been right. He had described a monster who took people into hell before they died. Schuler wanted no part of it. Whoever – whatever – this killer was, the police would never catch him.
Schuler was out of it now.
10.
Thirteen Days After the First Murder: Wednesday, 31 August 2005.
9.10 a.m.: Police Presidium, Hamburg
Fabel had been at his desk since seven-thirty. He had again gone through the BKA files that Ullrich had lent him and had taken out the sketch pad from his desk and plotted out as much as he could from the information at his disposal.
He phoned Bertholdt Muller-Voigt’s office. After he explained who he was, Fabel was told that the Environment Senator was working from home, which he often did, as yet another visible commitment to reducing his travel kilometres and therefore his impact on the environment. His secretary said she could, however, get right back to Fabel with an appointment for that day.
Fabel made another call. Henk Hermann had got Fabel the number for Ingrid Fischmann, the journalist.
‘Hello, Frau Fischmann? This is Principal Chief Commissar Jan Fabel of the Polizei Hamburg. I work for the Murder Commission, and I am currently investigating the murder of Hans-Joachim Hauser. I wondered if it would be possible to meet. I think you could help me with some background information…’
‘Oh… I see…’ The woman’s voice at the other end sounded a lot younger and lacked the authority that Fabel had somehow expected. ‘Okay… how about three p.m. at my office?’
‘That’s fine. Thank you, Frau Fischmann. I have the address.’
Within a few minutes of hanging up from Ingrid Fischmann, Bertholdt Muller-Voigt’s secretary phoned back saying that the Senator could fit Fabel in if he could make his way directly to Herr Muller-Voigt’s house. She gave Fabel an address near Stade in the Altes Land, outside Hamburg and on the south side of the Elbe. He doesn’t mind me clocking up the kilometres, thought Fabel as he hung up.
Muller-Voigt’s house was a huge modern home that had ‘expensive architect’ written in every angle and detail, and Fabel reflected on how the former left-wing environmentalist firebrand seemed to have embraced conspicuous consumption with great enthusiasm. As he approached the front door, however, Fabel noticed that what had appeared to be blue marble tiling along the whole front elevation was, in fact, a facade made up entirely of solar panels.
Muller-Voigt answered the door. As Fabel remembered him from Lex’s restaurant, he was a smallish but fit-looking man with broad shoulders and a tanned face broken by a broad, white-toothed smile.
‘Herr Chief Commissar, please… do come in.’
Fabel had heard of Muller-Voigt’s charm: his primary weapon, apparently, with women and political opponents alike. It was well known that he could turn it off whenever necessary. He could be an aggressive and highly outspoken opponent. The politician showed Fabel into a vast living room with a pine-lined double-height vaulted ceiling. He offered Fabel a drink, which the detective declined.
‘What can I do for you, Herr Fabel?’ asked Muller-Voigt, sitting down on a large corner sofa and indicating that Fabel should do likewise.
‘I’m sure you’ve heard of the deaths of Hans-Joachim Hauser and Gunter Griebel?’ asked Fabel.
‘God, yes. Terrible, terrible business.’
‘You knew Herr Hauser rather well, I believe.’
‘Yes, I did. But not socially for years. Not so much at all recently, in fact. I would bump into Hans-Joachim at the occasional conference or action meeting. And, of course, I knew Gunter, too. Not so well, and I hadn’t seen him for an even longer time than Hans-Joachim, but I did know him.’
Fabel looked startled. ‘I’m sorry, Herr Muller-Voigt – did you say you knew both victims?’
‘Yes, of course I did. Is that strange?’
‘Well…’ said Fabel. ‘My entire purpose in coming here was to see if you could cast light on any possible connection between the two victims. A connection, I have to add, that so far we have been unable to establish. Now it looks like you are that link.’
‘I’m flattered that I seem so important to your investigation,’ said Muller-Voigt, smiling. ‘But I can assure you that I was not the only connection. They knew each other.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Absolutely. Gunter was a strange fellow. Tall and lanky and not much of a talker, but he was active in the student movement. It doesn’t surprise me that the connection didn’t appear on your radar, though. He dropped out of sight after a while. It was as if he lost interest in the movement. But he and Hans-Joachim were both members of the Gaia Collective for a while. As was I.’
‘Oh?’
‘The Gaia Collective was a very short-lived phenomenon, I have to admit. A talking shop more than anything. I gave up on it when it became too… esoteric, I suppose you would say. The political objectivity got muddied with wacky philosophies – Paganism, that kind of thing. The Collective just sort of evaporated. That happened a lot back then.’
‘How well did Hauser and Griebel know each other?’ asked Fabel.
‘Oh, I don’t know. They weren’t friends or anything. Just through the Gaia Collective. They might have met outside, but I wouldn’t know about that. I know that Griebel was highly regarded for his intellect, but I have to say I always found him a very dull fellow. Very earnest and rather one-dimensional… like a lot of the people involved in the movement. And not particularly communicative.’
&
nbsp; ‘And you’ve had no contact with Griebel since the Gaia Collective days?’
‘None,’ said Muller-Voigt.
‘Who else was involved?’
‘It was a long time ago, Herr Fabel. A lifetime away.’
‘There are bound to be some people you recall.’
Fabel watched Muller-Voigt as he rubbed at his trimmed, greying beard thoughtfully. Fabel found it impossible to get the measure of the man or of how much, if anything, he was holding back.
‘I remember there was a woman I was involved with for a while,’ said Muller-Voigt. ‘Her name was Beate Brandt. I don’t know what happened to her. And Paul Scheibe… he was a Gaia Collective member too.’
‘The architect?’
‘Yes. He has just won a major architectural project in the HafenCity. He is the only person from the group that I still have regular contact with, if you exclude the odd times when I would run into Hans-Joachim. Paul Scheibe was and still is a very talented architect… very innovative in designing minimum-environmental-impact buildings. This latest concept for the Uberseequartier of the HafenCity is inspired.’
Fabel made a note of the names Beate Brandt and Paul Scheibe. ‘Do you remember anyone else?’
‘Not really… not names, anyway. I never really did get into the Gaia Collective, if you know what I mean.’
‘Do you remember if Franz Muhlhaus was involved with the Collective?’
Muller-Voigt looked taken aback by the mention of the name, then his expression became clouded with suspicion. ‘Oh… I see. It’s not my possible connection to the victims that interests you at all, is it? If you’ve come here to question me about Red Franz Muhlhaus because of the false allegations that Ingrid Fischmann has been circulating, then you can get the hell out of my house.’
Fabel held up a hand. ‘Firstly, I am here exclusively because I am trying to establish a connection between the victims. Secondly – and I do assure you of this, Herr Senator – this is a murder inquiry and you will answer all the questions I have for you. I don’t care what your position is: there is a maniac out there mutilating and murdering people who were connected to your circle in the nineteen seventies and nineteen eighties. We can either do this here or at the Presidium, but we’re going to do it.’
Muller-Voigt’s stare was locked on Fabel. Fabel realised that the intensity of the politician’s gaze came not from fury but from the fact that he was appraising Fabel, trying to decide if he was bluffing or not. It was clear that Muller-Voigt had been in too many political tussles to become easily rattled. Fabel found his cool, emotion-free detachment disturbing.
‘I don’t know what you think of me and my type, Herr Chief Commissar.’ Muller-Voigt let the tension ease from his posture and leaned back into the sofa. ‘I mean those of us who were active in the protest movement. But we changed Germany. Many of the liberties, many of the fundamental values and freedoms that everyone takes for granted about our society, are directly attributable to us taking a stand back then. We are nearing a time, if in fact we have not already reached it, when we can again be proud of what it is to be German. A liberal, pacifist nation. We did that, Fabel. My generation. Our protests blew the last dark cobwebs out of the corners of our society. We were the first generation without a direct memory of the war, of the Holocaust, and we made it clear that our Germany was going to have nothing to do with that Germany.
‘I admit I was on the streets. I admit that things got heated. But at the heart of my beliefs lies my pacifism: I don’t believe in doing violence to the Earth and I don’t believe in doing violence to my fellow man. Like I said, in the heat of the moment there were things I did back then that I regret now, but I could never – not then, not now – take a human life for the sake of a political conviction, no matter how strongly held. For me, that is what differentiates me from what went before.’
Muller-Voigt paused, keeping Fabel fixed with his gaze. ‘If there is a question lurking there that you maybe don’t want to ask, then let me answer it for you. Despite Ingrid Fischmann’s insinuations, and despite the political capital that the First Mayor’s wife has sought to make of them, I was not, in any way, involved with the kidnap and murder of Thorsten Wiedler. I had nothing whatsoever to do with it or the group behind it.’
‘Well, like I said, my sole interest is in the connection between the two victims,’ said Fabel. ‘I merely wanted to know if Muhlhaus had been a member of the Gaia Collective.’
‘Good God, no. I think I would remember that.’ Muller-Voigt looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Although I do understand why you ask. Muhlhaus had a pretty odd perspective on the movement and there were certain similarities between his ideas and those of the Collective. But no… Red Franz Muhlhaus had absolutely no involvement.’
‘Who was the Collective’s leader?’
For a moment Muller-Voigt looked confused by Fabel’s question. ‘There was no leader. It was a collective. Therefore it had a collective leadership.’
They talked for another fifteen minutes before Fabel rose and thanked Muller-Voigt for his time and for being cooperative. In return, Muller-Voigt wished Fabel the best of luck in tracking down the killer.
As Fabel turned out of the sweeping drive and onto the road back to the city, he considered the fact that he now had a point of direct contact between Hans-Joachim Hauser and Gunter Griebel, and he thought back on how open Muller-Voigt had seemed. So why was it, thought Fabel, that he felt as if Muller-Voigt had told him exactly nothing?
As he headed back to Hamburg along the B73, Fabel phoned Werner. He told him about the link between the victims and went through the highlights of what else Muller-Voigt had said to him.
‘I need to talk to this architect, Paul Scheibe,’ he said. ‘Could you get a contact number and arrange something? If you try his practice number, that would probably be best.’
‘Sure, Jan. I’ll get back to you.’
Fabel had just turned onto the A7 and was heading towards the Elbtunnel when his car phone buzzed.
‘Hi, Jan,’ said Werner. ‘I have just had the strangest conversation with the people at Scheibe’s architectural practice. I spoke to his deputy, a guy called Paulsen. He got really quite wound up when I said I was phoning from the Murder Commission… He thought I was phoning because we’d found Scheibe’s body or something. According to Paulsen, Scheibe attended a lunch reception at the Rathaus on Monday and hasn’t been seen since. Apparently the formal launch of this big HafenCity project is being held tonight and they’re worried that he isn’t going to show. Looks like we’ve got a missing person.’
‘Or a murder suspect on the run,’ said Fabel. ‘Send someone over there to get details. I think we should turn up at the launch party this evening ourselves. I’ll be back in before five. I’m heading up to the University right now and then I’m meeting the journalist Fischmann at three. Anything else?’
‘Only that Anna has turned up a lead on your World War Two mummy. The family no longer lives in that street. They were bombed out during the war, but Anna’s tracked down someone who was a friend of the dead guy. Do you want her to follow it up?’
‘No, it’s okay. I want to do it. It was my call-out. Tell Anna to leave the details on my desk.’
Fabel had just hung up when his car phone buzzed again.
‘Fabel…’ he said impatiently.
There was a sound of electronic static. Then a voice that was not human.
‘You are going to get a warning…’ The voice was distorted, as if through an electronic voice-changer. Fabel checked the caller display but no number had registered.
‘Who the hell is this?’ Fabel asked.
‘You will get a warning. Only one.’ The line went dead.
Fabel stared ahead at the traffic heading towards the Elbtunnel. A crank call. Maybe even someone who did not realise they had reached a police officer’s number. But somewhere, at the back of his head, an alarm was sounding.
10.00 a.m.: Archaeology Department, Universitat H
amburg
‘Have you found the relatives of our HafenCity dweller?’ Dr Severts smiled and offered Fabel a chair.
‘No. Not yet, unfortunately. I’m afraid I’ve had much more pressing things on my mind.’
‘This so-called Hamburg Hairdresser?’
‘Yes. It’s proving to be a…’ Fabel sought the right word. ‘… Challenging case for us. And, to be honest, I am clutching at any straws I can think of.’
‘Why do I get the feeling that I’m one of those straws?’
‘I’m sorry, but I am trying to approach this from every angle. I need to establish the significance of this maniac taking the scalp of his victims. I just thought you might be able to give me a historical perspective on it.’
‘I have to say that the significance is not difficult to read, as far as I can see,’ said Severts. ‘Taking the head or the scalp of a vanquished enemy is one of the oldest and most widely practised forms of trophy-taking. When you kill an enemy, you take his scalp. By doing so you haven’t just killed your enemy, you have belittled or humiliated him, and you have a trophy to prove your success as a warrior. Every continent has experienced at least one culture where taking the head or the scalp of enemies has been a major feature.’
‘I don’t know…’ Fabel frowned as he conjured up the image of Griebel’s study, his thinning scalp dyed an unnatural red and pinned to his bookshelves. ‘This killer doesn’t remove the scalp from the murder scene. He makes an exhibition of it, displaying it prominently in the home of his victim.’