The Valkyrie Song jf-5

by Craig Russell

  ‘Okay, Chef,’ said Werner. ‘What are we looking for?’

  ‘Jespersen getting into the taxi and leaving. I want the number of the taxi so we can trace the driver, but more specifically I want any trace of someone taking off after him.’

  ‘I’m on it, Chef. What do I tell the Nordic ice maiden if she turns up looking for you?’

  ‘She’s sitting right next to me, idiot,’ said Fabel. ‘And you’re on speakerphone. Just count yourself lucky that she can’t speak German.’

  At the other end of the connection, Werner laughed. ‘It doesn’t matter what language I talk, women never understand me. I’ll get the footage organised. When will you be back?’

  ‘Give me a couple of hours or so. Sometime after lunch.’ Fabel turned to Vestergaard to see if there was any hint that she had picked up on Werner’s jibe. There wasn’t.

  ‘Okay, back to Jespersen. Where are you going now?’

  Vestergaard frowned. ‘Somewhere I could get information on the Stasi.’

  ‘Wrong city. Berlin would have been his best bet for that — the Federal Commission that deals with Stasi files and information is based there. It has offices elsewhere, but all of them are in East Germany. Did he have any plans to travel further?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean he didn’t intend to take time to go to Berlin. There’s a high-speed rail link from Hamburg. He could have got there and back in a day.’

  Fabel drove on into the city and pulled up outside Vestergaard’s hotel on Alter Wall.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Jespersen stayed here too. He checks into the hotel and goes out. Why?’

  ‘To kill time. To see the city, maybe.’

  ‘Or to meet someone we don’t know about.’

  ‘It’s possible. Or he may have simply been looking for somewhere to get lunch. He was very regular in his eating habits.’

  ‘So let’s say he goes for lunch. Places to eat within walking distance from here…’ Fabel thought it over, then shook his head. ‘Central Hamburg… could be any of a hundred places. If there were only some way of narrowing it down.’

  ‘Is it that important to know where he ate?’

  ‘I think it might be. We’ve established that he was probably followed from the airport. He’s tried to speak to me but failed. My guess is that whoever was after him wanted him shut up before he could contact me. Whatever he was putting together, as soon as he started to frame it up and discuss it with others then too many people know about it for them to control it. They follow him here and tail him to where he was eating. It’s there that they make contact. Somehow they get someone to gain his trust. A woman. Maybe our so-called “Valkyrie”.’

  ‘But surely if he’s investigating a female professional killer…’

  ‘Remember he doesn’t know that they know about him. Some attractive woman bumps into him and starts a conversation and he doesn’t suspect a thing.’

  ‘Jens wasn’t really the chatty type.’ Vestergaard gave a bitter laugh. ‘Particularly in Germany.’

  ‘But remember we’re talking about real experts. Prepared, briefed. There will have been something to hook him. And perhaps she appeared to be non-German. Danish, even. Just to get him off his guard.’

  ‘But we don’t know where he went for lunch.’

  Fabel looked as if he had just got a small static shock. ‘The toy!’

  ‘What toy?’

  ‘We found a toy, one of these Hamburg souvenir teddy bears. It was in his hotel room with the rest of his stuff.’ Fabel shook his head impatiently. ‘Hold on a minute.’ He hit the button on his car phone and again got through to the Murder Commission. He asked to speak to Anna Wolff.

  ‘Anna, I’m going to ask you to do something and it’s going to sound trivial. Believe me, it’s not. Do you remember that teddy bear found at the Jespersen scene? It should be in the evidence locker.’

  ‘It should,’ said Anna, ‘but it’s not. It’s on my desk. I’ve named him Captain Cutie.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Anna, that’s evidence. You can’t just…’ Fabel drew a breath. ‘Forget it. Just read the manufacturer’s label and get in touch with them. I want to know who they distribute to in Hamburg. Make it within a three-kilometre radius of Jespersen’s hotel. Like I say, Anna, this is urgent. And important.’

  ‘I think I can manage it,’ said Anna flatly.

  Fabel hung up and turned to Vestergaard. ‘If we locate the outlet, then they might have security cameras. Or they might be in a mall with CCTV. And that means we may be able to get a look at Jespersen’s killer.’

  3

  Sylvie Achtenhagen decided not to drive to Berlin. Instead, she caught the S-Bahn from Altona into Hamburg’s main railway station and then took advantage of the gleaming new high-speed train that connected Germany’s two biggest cities.

  It took just over an hour and a half to get to Berlin. The weather had stayed bright and cold and Sylvie watched the flat North German landscape slide by, occasionally going through the notes she had made.

  Much like the train she had just travelled on, Berlin’s Main Railway Station was a statement: a promise about the future. Only two years old, the station was now a major Berlin landmark: a weaving of metal and glass on a monumental scale. It said very clearly to the world that this was, after all, the very heart of a new Europe. Sylvie made her way through the main concourse and out to the taxi stand.

  ‘Where to, love?’ asked the driver in a thick Berlin accent.

  ‘The Birthler Office.’

  ‘Off to see your file, are you, love?’

  The Birthler Office, or BStU, was shorthand for the headquarters of an organisation whose name needed to be abbreviated: the Federal Commission for Preserving the Records of the Ministry for State Security of the German Democratic Republic. Its abbreviated form took its name from the serving Federal Commissioner, Marianne Birthler.

  It took only fifteen minutes to get to the Birthler Office and after waiting a further ten Sylvie was greeted by a gaunt-looking man in his early fifties who introduced himself as Max Wengert. Wengert explained that he worked for the department that dealt with media requests for access to files. Sylvie, as a familiar face from television, was used to people reacting differently towards her than perhaps they would normally. There was something about Wengert’s broad smile as he greeted her that suggested smiling was not something he did often. In that greeting, she recognised someone she could probably manipulate to divulge more information than he should.

  ‘It’s so kind of you to take the time to help me with this, Herr Wengert.’ Sylvie smiled sweetly as he guided her into an interview room. ‘Personally, as it were.’

  ‘I have to admit to being something of a fan of yours.’ He smiled again and exposed tobacco-stained teeth. Sylvie imagined him sitting alone in some tiny Berlin flat watching her on TV. She embellished the image a little too much and felt a shudder of revulsion. But she hid it well.

  ‘Were you able to find out anything about the name I gave you… Georg Drescher?’ she asked.

  Wengert pulled the chair out from the table in the interview room, inviting Sylvie to sit. His long grey face took on a conspiratorial expression.

  ‘Actually, Frau Achtenhagen, it’s quite a coincidence — you are the second person to enquire about that name this week.’

  ‘Really? Who was the other enquiry from? Was it another broadcaster, or a newspaper?’

  ‘Neither.’ Wengert looked unsure for a moment. ‘Well, I suppose it does no harm to tell you. No, it wasn’t actually a media enquiry. It came from the police. The Polizei Hamburg.’

  ‘I see…’ said Sylvie. ‘Did they say why they were interested in Drescher?’

  ‘No, they didn’t. I couldn’t help them. And I’m afraid I can’t help you. We do know from other files referring to him that he did exist, but Major Georg Drescher does not have a personal file that we can trace. Nor can we find any other file of a significant nature with refer
ence to him or his activities. All the mentions we have of him are in minor files where he is, sometimes literally, merely a footnote.’

  ‘Isn’t that — well — odd?’

  ‘Far from it, Frau Achtenhagen. The Stasi had masses of files, millions. Every report from an unofficial collaborator was written up, indexed and filed. Take the personal files on individuals: there are six million of them. Out of a total population of, what? Sixteen million? That means there’s a lot of inconsequential stuff in there. But the important stuff — the big secrets — a lot of that was shredded or removed. Towards the end of eighty-nine, beginning of ninety, the Stasi saw the writing on the Wall, if you’ll pardon the pun — added to which there were thousands of civil-rights protesters outside waiting to get in to tear the place apart and get their hands on the files, which they did on the fifteenth of January. I would imagine it must have been mayhem in Stasi Headquarters in the days and hours before the protesters got in. When they did they stopped the destruction of the files, but a lot of the more incriminating material had already been shredded. We recovered nearly seventeen thousand sacks containing nearly fifty million shredded pages. And we’re still trying to put them together. But that’s not the whole story. In amongst those civil-rights protesters who broke in were members of the American CIA, who helped themselves to some of the most sensitive information. They wanted to get their hands on lists of agents working in the West. And I would also guess that in amongst the protesters there were more than a few Stasi agents and informers trying to get to their files before anyone else.’

  ‘And you think that’s what happened to Drescher’s files?’ asked Sylvie. ‘That he’s managed to wipe his existence from the records?’

  ‘Maybe, but not necessarily. We are still trying to put the shredded and hand-torn files back together. It was only last year that we developed a computer-software system that can reassemble the pages digitally and speed the whole process up. Even with that, it’s going to take us until 2013. But you can be very sure that there will be some nasty surprises along the way — a lot of former Stasi agents and informers won’t be sleeping too easily in their beds, I’ll tell you that. Maybe Drescher’s files are somewhere in there, waiting to be put together.’

  ‘If they’re here at all.’ Sylvie let out a long breath in disappointment

  ‘There is something else…’ Wengert leaned forward, lowering his voice. ‘You know that the BStU is going to be absorbed into the State Records Office? It’s because of the Hans Hugo Klein investigation. It showed the level to which the BStU has been infiltrated by ex-Stasi — people who could be working inside here to hide or destroy the files we’re supposed to be protecting and reconstructing.’

  ‘So maybe Drescher has a friend in here?’

  Wengert shrugged. ‘Who knows? Sorry I can’t be of more help.’

  ‘What about the other names I gave you?’

  ‘Well, unless it is related to your personal file, if you have one here, or unless it is demonstrably in the public interest, I’m not supposed to release that kind of information.’

  ‘Herr Wengert…’ Sylvie smiled at the official and watched him melt. Men were so easy to manipulate. ‘Would I be right in saying that you were one of the civil-rights activists who stormed the Lichtenberg Bastille?’

  Wengert beamed with pride. ‘Yes. I was.’

  ‘Then you are clearly a man who stands up for what is right. Who cares about the truth. And you’ve said yourself, this place is probably lousy with ex-Stasi scum. How can we get to the truth if we play by the rules and they don’t? I promise you that the people on the list I sent you are not the ones I want to expose. I just want to talk to them, that’s all. But they may lead me to Drescher. And he is someone we should care about. I am not asking for you to compromise your ethics, Herr Wengert. I’m asking you to stand by them.’

  Wengert stared at Sylvie, an inner struggle obviously going on behind his dull eyes. He stood up, decisively.

  ‘Wait here a moment, please,’ he said, and left the room.

  4

  Fabel had left Vestergaard at her hotel to freshen up. He had promised her that he would let her know as soon as they ascertained where Jespersen had eaten lunch or if they had uncovered any sightings of a tail from the airport. He felt he was making progress, but the idea that it could all be a wild-goose chase continued to haunt him.

  He was on his way back into the office when Anna phoned.

  ‘I’ve had a call,’ she said, ‘from a bright-as-a-button, all-eager-as-hell Commissar based down at Commissariat Twelve in Klingberg. She’s keen to speak to you. I said you would ring her back, but seeing as you’re in the area…’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘A suicide. It looks straightforward and he left a note. Took a dive and landed on his face. From what she said this guy really does have eyes in the back of his head-’

  ‘Anna…’ Fabel injected a warning tone into his voice.

  ‘Anyway, she’s got in touch because she thinks something’s a bit off about the whole thing. She admits her feeling is groundless but she wanted to talk to you about it.’

  ‘She asked for me particularly?’

  ‘I think she’s after my job. Her timing’s impeccable.’

  Fabel let the jibe pass. ‘Is she on duty now?’

  ‘Yep. I thought I’d let you know because of this Valkyrie thing. You know, any death that there could be any doubt about.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Iris Schmale. I’m guessing all that schoolgirl exuberance will make her easy to recognise.’

  Police Commissariat 12, Klingberg, was less well known than Davidwache but architecturally it was probably even more impressive. One of Hamburg’s most famous landmarks was the Chilehaus, in the city’s Kontorhaus Quarter. The Chilehaus, as almost every Hamburg tour guide would tell visitors, was designed to resemble the sharp-edged prow of a ship. The Klingberg police station had been built in 1906 into the flank of the Chilehaus complex. It was, in itself, a magnificent piece of brickwork.

  Fabel suppressed a grin when Criminal Commissar Iris Schmale greeted him in the main office. She was exactly as Anna had imagined her: young, fresh-faced and bubbling with enthusiasm. She had rebellious, vibrant red hair tied back into a long ponytail and her pale complexion was clustered with freckles. It gave her a girlish look.

  ‘I believe you have a suicide that smells fishy,’ said Fabel.

  ‘I do, Herr Principal Chief Commissar. The dead man’s name was Peter Claasens. He owned and ran a shipping agency on the edge of the Kontorhaus Quarter. From what I can see he had everything going for him. Wife, kids, highly successful business.’

  ‘Lots of people with families and successful businesses commit suicide every day,’ said Fabel. ‘And I believe the deceased left a note.’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Schmale. Fabel failed to suppress a grin at her vehemence. ‘That’s exactly it. There’s something about the suicide note that’s…’ She frowned as she sought the right word. ‘Ambiguous.’

  ‘Do you have it here?’

  She handed him a sheet of paper. ‘This is a photocopy. The note was found several metres from the body. No blood on it. The only fingerprints were those of the deceased.’

  Fabel began reading the note out loud. ‘“Dear Marianne…”’ He raised an eyebrow at Schmale.

  ‘Wife.’

  ‘“Dear Marianne, I am sorry I have to do this, and I know that, right at this moment, you are angry with me, but I need you to understand that there is no other way forward for me to go. It is tough to leave you and the kids behind, but it is better for me to go. I have made sure you will all be provided for and I don’t want you to think ill of me for making the only decision I could make. This is my decision and I want you to know that no one else played a part in it. I’m sorry I won’t be around every day to see the kids grow up, but I just couldn’t go on the way things were. I know you understand. Goodbye… Peter.”’ Fabel handed the sheet ba
ck to Schmale. ‘Have you spoken to the wife?’

  ‘Of course. I know that bereaved families often find the idea of suicide difficult to accept, but Marianne Claasens just simply refuses to believe that he committed suicide. And she doesn’t strike me as a woman overwhelmed by the shock of it all. She’s not in denial — she really is certain that her husband did not kill himself. And that note

  …’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Well, it could mean anything. I tried to imagine it out of context — that it hadn’t been found at the scene of a suicide. And to me it reads more like someone who’s leaving his wife, not killing himself: “ I want you to know that no one else played a part in it.” How could anyone else play a part in his suicide? That sounds to me like he was about to clear off with someone else and wanted to keep her name out of it.’

  Fabel thought about what Schmale had said and as he did so she watched him urgently, like the accused waiting for the judge’s verdict.

  ‘That was good thinking,’ he said and smiled. ‘About viewing the note in a neutral context. But if this isn’t suicide, then it’s murder. And if, as you suspect, he was about to leave his wife, that makes her the prime suspect. Have you checked her out?’

  ‘Yes, Herr Principal Chief Commissar. She was nowhere near Claasens’s office. And she has a dozen witnesses to prove it. She was at some function at the St Georg Hospital. She’s a consultant there. Oncologist.’

  ‘And Claasens?’

  ‘As I said, he was a shipping agent. He had his own business arranging export/import traffic for major Hamburg-based concerns. He specialised in the Far East.’

  ‘Any suspicious involvements?’

  ‘Not in his business dealings. He seems to have been one of Hamburg’s most respected businessmen. And he had political ambitions too, apparently. Was thinking about running for the Hamburg Senate. That’s the other thing: suicides don’t tend to plan their futures.’