‘You said there was nothing suspicious in his business dealings. Was there something in his private life?’
‘From what I can gather, Claasens was a bit of a ladies’ man. Another reason why I would read a different interpretation into that note.’
‘Let me see it again…’ Fabel read through it once more. ‘Okay, I think you may have something. I’ll put a team on the case to work with you.’
Fabel left the Klingberg Commissariat and Iris Schmale standing grinning as if she’d won the lottery. She was a smart kid, that was for sure, but, on the face of it, there was nothing to suggest that there was any more to Claasens’s death than what it seemed to be: a burnt-out exec taking a dive from his office building. But, walking back to his car as the winter sky glowered down on the Kontorhaus Quarter, Fabel knew the feeling in his gut was the same nagging that Iris Schmale had felt. A policeman’s instinct. It was getting dark already. He checked his watch and, knowing she would be home from school, he decided to phone Gabi.
‘What’s up, Dad?’ Fabel’s daughter habitually used the English term. It wouldn’t have sounded right for her to call him anything else.
‘You free for a coffee?’
‘What, now?’
‘I could meet you at about six. We could get something to eat. That’s if your mother doesn’t mind.’
‘She’s working late. I’ll leave a note. Usual place in the Arkaden?’
‘Usual place. See you then.’
5
Fabel sat in the cafe, looking out towards the Alster. It was too dark now to see the swans gliding across its winter shield of dark water; instead his own reflection stared back at him. He thought he looked tired. And older. The grey had started to insinuate itself into the blond of his hair and the wrinkles were deepening around his eyes.
He sat and sipped the tea he had ordered and waited for Gabi to arrive.
A huddle of young women, barely more than girls, sat two tables away. Students, from the look of them. There were five of them and they laughed and joked in the careless way that only the young seem able to. Fabel found himself envious of an as yet unjaded, unmuted enthusiasm for life that he had felt himself. Once.
His phone rang. It was Anna Wolff.
‘The teddy bear that Jespersen bought,’ she said. ‘It was bought from a shop in the Hanseviertel. I’ve spoken to them, but the name Jespersen doesn’t ring any bells. But that doesn’t really mean anything — they have so many customers passing through, a lot of them tourists and foreigners. One thing we do know, though, is that he paid cash. There’s no record of him using his credit card.’
‘Maybe he got it somewhere else,’ said Fabel.
‘Nope — the store had them on special order. Picked the jumper design themselves. This is the only place that sells them.’
‘The Hanseviertel…’ Fabel muttered.
‘What?’
‘Jespersen probably had lunch in the Hanseviertel. Check which restaurants and cafes have CCTV and get the tapes for lunchtime that day.’
‘Yes, Chef,’ sighed Anna. Fabel let it go.
‘Anything on the tapes from the Reeperbahn? Have we got a picture of the fake taxi yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Well, chase them up, for God’s sake. It’s the only lead we’ve got.’
After he hung up, Fabel turned back to the window to watch for Gabi arriving and only looked in the girls’ direction when they started to leave. It was the last girl he noticed. Their eyes met and recognition registered in hers. She was wearing a grungy black jacket and was hatless, her fair hair gathered roughly into a ponytail. Fabel smiled faintly at her, knowing he should know her but unable to place her. She looked away in that swift but casual manner, as if she hadn’t seen him, that every policeman recognises as an effort not to be noticed.
It was only after the girls had disappeared around the corner into Poststrasse that Fabel realised the girl was Christa Eisel, the young prostitute who had found Jake Westland dying behind Herbertstrasse. There was something about the realisation that depressed Fabel. It was as if he had been unable to recognise her because he had seen her in an appropriate context. She had been where she should be: with friends of her own age, talking and laughing about life. He wondered how many of her friends knew about her other life. Maybe that was it. Maybe everybody has a double life: another face for another context.
‘ What’s up, Pops? ’
Fabel was taken aback as Gabi, who had spoken in English, dropped into the seat opposite him. He leaned over and kissed his daughter and then, smiling, let his hand rest for a moment on her cheek.
‘You okay, Dad?’ There was concern in Gabi’s voice.
‘I’m fine, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘It’s just that it’s good to see you. It’s always good to see you… Have I ever told you how proud I am of the way you’re turning out?’
‘All the time, Dad. Is this you softening me up for the big lecture?’
The waitress came over and they placed their order.
‘Your mother told you what I wanted to talk to you about?’ he asked after the waitress had gone.
‘Kind of. Or what she wants you to talk to me about.’ Gabi pushed at a small deposit of spilt salt, pushing it into a pile. ‘She wants you to talk me out of a police career.’
‘Well, I thought you knew me better than that,’ Fabel said indignantly. ‘And your mother should, too. And one thing I know for sure is that I could never talk you into or out of anything.’
‘Sorry, Dad.’
‘But I do want to discuss it with you. If it’s what you really want, then I’m with you all the way. But I do want you to know what you’re getting into.’
‘The truth is — but don’t tell Mum this — that I’ve not made up my mind. I’m just thinking about it, that’s all. What I want to do is study law and jurisprudence first. Maybe criminology. Then see.’
‘That’s a good plan, Gabi. Keep your options open.’
‘How would you feel if I joined the police?’ Gabi looked at Fabel earnestly and for a moment he remembered the serious little face she had always put on when she had been little if concentrating.
‘Like I said, Gabi, it’s your decision.’
‘That’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking what you would think.’
For a moment Fabel sat and stared past Gabi and in the direction that Christa Eisel had taken. A girl just a few years older than his daughter.
‘I think there are worse paths to take. Much worse. But I won’t pretend I wouldn’t worry about you.’
‘The danger?’
‘There is physical danger, that’s true. But there’s psychological danger too. Some of the things you see. Some of the people you deal with. It’s a whole new dimension of life that you wouldn’t come across normally.’
‘ You deal with it.’
‘Not as well as I should, if I’m totally honest. That’s why I nearly chucked it all in last year.’
‘But you see, Dad, I didn’t know that. You have never spoken to me about your work.’
‘I’m sorry. Maybe I should have. But the truth is most of police work is boring or depressing. Take my job. It’s one of the top jobs you can have in the police and because of all of the stuff you read and see on the TV, you’d think it was exciting and glamorous. Believe me, it’s not. Ninety-nine per cent… more than ninety-nine per cent of the murders I deal with are committed by people of low IQ, fuelled by drink or drugs, in seedy or squalid surroundings. The truth is that murder is vulgar. The vast majority of crime is. There are very few criminal masterminds or genius serial killers out there. Most of the time you end up with someone sitting across the table from you who is, in many ways, just another victim of their own crime. They sit there, probably only just sobered up, confused and wondering how the hell they ended up in the position they’re in.’
‘But not always, surely?’
‘No… not always. Then you get the sociopaths, the rapists, the drug dealers, th
e career criminals who have killed or maimed purely for personal gratification or gain. But again, Gabi, it’s not the way you see it on the TV. These are the dregs of society.’
‘I think I have a more sophisticated perspective than you seem to think, Dad. I live in the real world. I don’t get my ideas from the TV.’
‘Fair enough.’ Fabel smiled at his daughter. ‘I know you’re a bright kid, but it’s important that you know just what it is you’re getting yourself into. It’s a job that gets to you. No matter how hard or tough you think you are, something, somewhere along the way, will get to you.’
‘Are you talking about me or are you talking about Maria Klee? I know what happened to her. Is that what you’re worried about? Tell me, Dad, and I want you to be totally honest: would you be having this talk with me if I were your son and not your daughter?’
‘Yes. Absolutely. That has nothing to do with it. This is all to do with who you are, not what gender you are. Some people are cut out for the job, others aren’t.’
‘Do you think I am?’ Gabi asked, with more than a touch of defiance. At that moment, Fabel saw a hint of Renate’s fieriness in his daughter’s eyes.
‘I don’t know,’ said Fabel. ‘I really mean that. Even after all these years, I sometimes doubt that I am. I just want you to keep as open a mind as you can about your future.’ He paused for a moment, unsure whether to commit his next thought to words. ‘I’ve never said anything bad about your mother, you know that, don’t you?’
‘I know. I also know that you had good reason to but never did,’ Gabi said, her expression sad.
‘I’m not going to start now, Gabi, but I do want you not to let her sway you from whatever course you pick for yourself. Me neither. It’s up to you, and I know that your mother can be a little…’
‘Bitter?’ Gabi finished the thought for him. ‘The truth is it didn’t take her long to realise the mistake she had made. Ludiger never did match up to you for her. Despite all of his charm, he turned out to be a creep.’
‘I never did get the story about why they broke up. I’m guessing it was another woman?’
Gabi didn’t answer right away. ‘Didn’t you know, Dad? He knocked her about.’
‘Hit her?’
‘Not often. And not so badly that it would show. But once is too often.’
Fabel gazed at Gabi. ‘I had no idea…’ His expression suddenly darkened. ‘He never laid a hand on you, did he? If he did…’
Gabi held her hand up. ‘Take it easy, Dad. No, he didn’t. Trust me. He would only have got to try it once.’
‘The bastard.’ Fabel shook his head in disbelief. ‘I mean, Renate
… I would never have imagined her as a battered wife…’
‘Now, given everything you’ve just been telling me about police work, I think that’s a pretty naive thing for a policeman to say. You should know that you can never tell a victim of domestic violence by their appearance.’
‘You say it didn’t happen that often?’
‘I think it followed the usual pattern. He started to get violent more, for less provocation. I think Mum took the attitude that she had made her own bed so she’d have to lie in it. But eventually she decided to throw him out.’
‘Did you ever see him hit her?’
‘Oh, no — he was very careful about that. I didn’t know about it until Mum told me, after it was all over. She told me then that she wished she’d never split up with you; that when you and she were married it would never have crossed her mind that you could hit her.’
‘Shit,’ said Fabel. ‘I had no idea…’
‘Well, maybe you can understand a little better now why she’s always on your case.’
The waitress returned with their meal. As they ate, they fell into a more general conversation about school, friends, how things were going at home. Fabel always enjoyed his daughter’s company and he was glad to move on to lighter topics. But all the time he thought about his ex-wife Renate. How strong-willed and independent-spirited she had always been and how degrading it must have been for her to have been assaulted by Behrens in her own house.
The thought darkened his mood and he found himself also thinking about the brief look that he had exchanged with strong-willed, independent-spirited Christa Eisel. And every time he thought of her, it gave him a bad feeling.
6
Ute Cranz looked at her watch before casting one final glance over the carefully arranged table. Robert Gerdes would arrive in the next few minutes. Everything was ready: the table set, each course of the meal scheduled for readiness at exactly the right time. And the kitchen. Everything in the kitchen was prepared.
She walked across to the full-length mirror in the hall, by the door. Her deep auburn hair was gathered up, her lipstick and make-up were perfectly done. She was wearing a simple but expensive deep green dress that had a sharkskin lustre to it. For a moment she worried that it made her look reptilian, then laughed at her own insecurity: the dress’s colour and sheen simply complemented and highlighted the rich copper tones in her hair. She smoothed the dress over her hips and thighs. She looked great.
If Ute needed confirmation, she got it when Gerdes arrived, exactly on time.
‘Frau Cranz,’ he said when she opened the door to admit him, ‘you look… radiant.’ His eyes scanned her figure before settling on her face. His eyes were smiling. Knowing. ‘I brought these…’ He held up a large manila envelope. ‘These are the details of the lease. I’m sure yours are the same.’
Taking the envelope and placing it on the hall table, she picked up the glass she had left waiting there for his arrival. She smiled and handed it to him.
‘A little Prosecco… I thought it would be nice.’
‘Are you not joining me?’
‘I will in a minute,’ she said, parting her red lips to expose perfect teeth. ‘Would you mind making yourself at home? I’ve just a few things to finish in the kitchen.’
‘Not at all,’ he said, with a gracious bow. Ute thought Gerdes had an almost aristocratic look. He was wearing a blazer, a crisp white collar and a blue tie with fine red stripes through it. There was something about him that made him look as though he belonged in a different era. A past time.
She extended her arm in the direction of the dining table, indicating he should sit, excused herself once more and walked through to the kitchen. She closed the door behind her. From where he was sitting, Gerdes would not have been able to see into the kitchen when she opened the door. She had planned it that way. She stood and took a moment to think through all she had to do. Then she cast an eye around the kitchen, just to make sure.
Yes, everything was ready.
Ute stood listening to the soup simmering on the hob and the low whirr of the oven’s fan, while all around her the floor, the work surfaces, even the walls to shoulder height, were covered in thick blue plastic sheeting.
To catch any splashes of his blood.
7
Fabel could tell there was something on Susanne’s mind as soon as he came through the door of their apartment. He had become attuned to her moods since they had been together: he knew when something was troubling her, but, like most men, he was capable only of reading the big signs and not the small print.
‘How did your talk with Gabi go?’ Susanne smiled but still looked preoccupied.
‘Fine. You know Gabi, she’s a smart kid. Smart enough to make up her own mind about things.’ Fabel kissed Susanne. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.
‘I’ve been through the files you gave me on the Westland and Lensch murders.’ There was an impatient energy in the way Susanne spoke.
‘Okay…’ Fabel followed Susanne through to the lounge and they sat on the sofa, the files spread out in front of them on the coffee table. ‘What about your rule of not talking shop at home?’
‘I thought it was our rule… anyway, I’ll let it go this once. There’s something not right here. There is no pattern. In terms of victim profile or chronology.’
‘But we haven’t had enough victims for any true pattern to emerge.’
‘You did with the original murders in the nineties. But this time
… I don’t know.’ She frowned as she flicked through the notes. ‘You’re putting your money on a copycat, right?’
‘Yes. At least for the moment.’
‘Okay, let’s say it is a copycat,’ said Susanne. ‘What kind of killer or killers are we looking at? God knows you’re almost as much an expert in the psychology of multiple murderers as I am, so you know that there are four broad groups that female serial killers fall into.’
‘Yep,’ Fabel said, leaning back in the sofa and placing his hands behind his head. ‘Angels of Death, Black Widows, Revenge Killers and Insanity Killers.’
‘Right, said Susanne. She got up, went through to the kitchen and came back with a chilled bottle of wine and two glasses. She poured them both a glass.
‘Very nice,’ he said, sipping the wine. ‘You can’t beat a nice crisp Chardonnay and a chat about dismembered bodies.’
‘Do you want to hear this or not?’ Susanne said impatiently.
‘Okay. The four groups. And you’re trying to pick where our girl belongs?’
‘Trying is right. Take the Angels of Death — women who are usually nurses or other medical professionals, who kill the vulnerable, and usually for profit or because they feel they are doing the victim a favour, when all the time they’re really getting off on the power trip of having life or death in their hands. She’s not one of them.’
‘Agreed.’ Fabel took another sip of his wine.
‘Then there are Black Widows. Black Widows in turn fall into two categories: the profit-motivated and the sexual predator or psychosexually motivated. Their victims tend to be known to them. Intimate. They kill their sexual partners or men they pick up.’
‘I’m sleeping on the couch tonight.’ Fabel grinned, then wiped the grin from his face in response to Susanne’s frown. ‘Okay, maybe our girl falls into that category. She does make sexual overtures and plays the part of a prostitute.’
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