The Ghosts of Altona

by Craig Russell

  ‘Unless, of course, there was something, some event, that made you decide not to see each other again. Like I said, the past shapes the present. It’s almost as if the three of you made some kind of agreement fifteen years ago never to see each other again.’

  ‘Of course we didn’t. You’re talking utter nonsense.’

  ‘Did you know Monika Krone?’ asked Anna.

  ‘I was asked that fifteen years ago when she first went missing, so you already know the answer.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Anna smiled. ‘You and she were involved, weren’t you?’

  ‘For a while.’ Albrecht made a show of sighing. ‘But that ended months before her disappearance – again, you already know all about that. And you also know that it was a very casual involvement. She was a very beautiful girl and I had lots of relationships with lots of other female students. There was nothing deep nor special about my relationship with Monika.’

  ‘And you were able to account for your movements at the time of her disappearance, as I recall.’

  Albrecht now held Anna in his cold, blue gaze. She showed no sign of being impressed.

  ‘I was,’ he said.

  ‘And that seems to complete the circle,’ said Fabel, ‘and brings us back to the late Herr Hensler, who happened to be your alibi for that evening, and you his. In his statement at the time, he said you and he went on from the party to a bar. Or several bars.’

  ‘Where we were seen by other people.’

  ‘Only later in the evening,’ said Anna. ‘No one can remember seeing you at the first couple of bars.’

  ‘I can’t help that. We didn’t go out of our way to be conspicuous. We had no idea that we should be making sure people saw us to support our alibi. And if we had, I’m sure you would have found that suspicious too.’

  ‘Maybe you could tell us where you were the nights Detlev Traxinger and Werner Hensler died,’ said Anna.

  This time, Fabel saw something shift in Albrecht’s expression. ‘I was at a dinner the night Detlev was killed. I have a dozen or more people who can confirm that.’

  ‘And when Herr Hensler was murdered?’

  ‘I was at home,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Alone?’ asked Anna.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So someone can verify you were there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Another sigh. ‘I was with someone. A woman. A married woman. I can’t give you her name.’

  ‘Herr Albrecht,’ said Anna, ‘you can be assured that we are very discreet. And I have to stress that it’s in your best interests to cooperate. Anything you tell us will be in complete confidence.’

  ‘No it won’t – you’ll have to go and talk to her to confirm that she spent the night with me. And God knows how many people will be able to find out.’ He paused and gave a strange, small laugh. ‘She might not even back up my story. We are talking about someone with a position to think about. So no, I can’t tell you. And, to be frank, I don’t see why I have to. You are treating me as a suspect yet you have absolutely no grounds to believe that I killed Detlev. Or worse still Werner, who I probably would have walked past in the street without recognizing.’

  Fabel watched Albrecht for a moment. The architect still was in control of his emotions. He nodded to Anna who reached into her bag and took out two photographs. She stood up, leaned across the desk and placed the photographs in front of Albrecht. He picked them up and examined them.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘This tattoo has no significance for you?’ asked Fabel.

  Albrecht examined the photographs again and shook his head.

  ‘These photographs were taken of both bodies in the mortuary. Herr Traxinger and Herr Hensler had identical tattoos, in exactly the same spot.’

  Albrecht shrugged and held the photographs out to Anna. When she didn’t take them, he let them fall back onto the vast polished plateau of his desk.

  ‘What’s the significance of the initials “DT”?’ she asked.

  ‘I have absolutely no idea. Detlev’s initials?’

  ‘Then why would Werner Hensler have the same initials?’

  ‘Like I say, I’m afraid I really have no idea.’ Albrecht stood up to punctuate the end of the conversation. ‘I have to get on. I have answered all of your questions and there’s nothing more I can add.’

  Fabel and Anna made no move to stand up.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have a similar tattoo, Herr Albrecht?’

  Albrecht laughed as if confounded by the stupidity of Fabel’s question. ‘No, of course I don’t.’

  Fabel and Anna remained silent. Albrecht sighed and unbuttoned first his suit jacket, then his black shirt, pulling it open to reveal his chest above the heart. His chest was heavily muscled, the skin smooth and very pale. And unmarked by a tattoo.

  ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘Thank you, Herr Albrecht,’ said Fabel.

  *

  As they made their way back to the car, Anna said, ‘Well, whatever the significance of the tattoo, he certainly doesn’t have one. He off the list?’

  ‘No, Anna,’ said Fabel. ‘Herr Albrecht has just promoted himself to the top of the suspect list. Let me see the morgue photographs again.’

  Frowning, she stopped, searched her bag and handed the photographs to Fabel.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘These are extreme close-ups of the tattoos.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You can’t see anything else other than the tattoos and a centimetre or so of skin around them. There’s no clue as to whereabouts on the body they are. It could be an arm, a thigh, a shoulder, anywhere.’

  Anna’s eyes widened slightly as the realization hit her. ‘So how did Albrecht know to show us the left side of his chest?’

  ‘When we get back, I want absolutely everything we’ve got on Herr Tobias Albrecht.’

  45

  Water was Fabel’s element. He grew up by the sea, had an instinct always to be close to it. It was an element, and an instinct, he shared with Hamburg. The city was a paradox: a world-leading seaport more than a hundred kilometres from where the Elbe opened its mouth wide into the North Sea. But it was the ocean and maritime trade routes that had shaped the city. And there was water everywhere: the deep, broad river Elbe that ran through it, the Binnen and Aussen Alster lakes, the web of canals – more than Amsterdam and Venice combined – that connected the whole city.

  And sometimes, when he needed to think, he followed his instinct to be near water and got away from the Presidium. One of his favourite venues was a café by the Winterhuder Fährhaus, a canal stop where small red and white ferries would pause to drop off or pick up passengers. It was close enough to the Presidium but offered him a chance to break away from the constant flow of paperwork, internal emails and interruptions.

  This small canalside café, along with another Turkish-German one in Ottensen, had become two of the places Fabel went to be alone. In both places he was known but anonymous; recognized, but simply as a regular who usually came alone, sat alone and left alone.

  Today, however, Fabel had arranged to meet Anna there and she had phoned to say she was running late. While he waited, he ordered a tea and phoned the Institute for Judicial Medicine for an update on the autopsy results from both victims. He got through to Holger Brauner.

  ‘I think we’ve maybe got something for you,’ said Brauner. ‘Something came up in toxicology on both victims and we’re in the process of isolating it.’

  ‘The same thing in both of them?’

  ‘Looks like, but let me get back to you. I’ll give you a buzz as soon as I know more.’

  Fabel had just hung up when Anna arrived. He waved to the waiter and ordered a coffee for her.

  ‘We’ve checked every tattooist operating in Hamburg,’ she explained. ‘Not one remembers ever doing that monogram motif. Of course it was fifteen years ago . . .’

  ‘But whoever did the tattoos did more than one.’
>
  ‘That’s not the point – some of the tattooists operating fifteen years ago are no longer around, for one reason or another. But we’ll keep on it.’

  ‘What about Tobias Albrecht – you get anything on him?’

  ‘No criminal record at all . . .’ Anna flicked through her notes. ‘Rich parents, educated at a boarding school here in Germany and another in France. Studied architecture at the Uni Hamburg and post-grad at Bauhaus-Weimar. About seven years ago he made it onto this list – “the top ten young European architects to watch”. He’s an important guy in the world of architecture. But he has been in a few scrapes though.’

  ‘Oh?

  ‘Basically he fucks anything that moves. I mean, he’s a really good-looking guy and he obviously knows how to work the whole bad-boy thing, so I guess he wouldn’t need to try hard, but it goes way beyond that. Almost pathological. Sex-addiction . . . satyrism, I think they call it. Anyway, he’s left a string of broken hearts, broken marriages, abortions and Christ knows what else in his wake. He tends to go for married women to avoid the complication of commitment. It all came to a head about five years ago and he’s learned to be a bit more discreet since then.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Fabel.

  ‘A girlfriend tried to kill him – stuck a knife in him – in a fit of jealousy and then killed herself. From what I can gather it shook him up a bit.’

  ‘I don’t remember that,’ said Fabel.

  ‘It didn’t happen in our jurisdiction. It was in Bremen. I’ve asked the Polizei Nordrhein-Westfalen to email me copies of all the relevant files. Albrecht got a team of lawyers to sit on the press – protection of privacy, that kind of crap – but it still got a fair amount of coverage.’

  ‘Is there any chance it wasn’t a suicide?’ Fabel paused; a young couple passed by their table as they left the café and he waited till they were out of earshot. ‘That she stabbed Albrecht in self-defence?’

  ‘Like I said, the details are on their way but no, from what I’ve been able to find out, it was pretty clearly a jealous rage thing. There was a witness, apparently – the woman Albrecht was banging when his girlfriend found them together. Believe me, getting the dirt on him has been easy, and I’ve only scratched the surface.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Just that he was holding back on us about just how close the three of them were at university. Albrecht was a hell of a lot pallier with Werner Hensler and Detlev Traxinger than he let on. I made a few phone calls and there are a couple of old university contemporaries of theirs I’d like to chat to. All three were complete arseholes, from what I can gather, and they all were pretty busy with the female students. Obviously Albrecht was busier than the others.’

  ‘So the three of them were all friends together, not just Traxinger and Albrecht?’

  ‘If anything, it seems like Albrecht and Hensler were closer. But yes, the three of them, plus the Dane who was interviewed at the time of Monika’s disappearance. Paul Mortensen.’

  Fabel nodded thoughtfully. ‘So, Hensler is Albrecht’s alibi, and vice versa. Let me guess . . .’

  ‘Yep,’ said Anna. ‘Mortensen and Traxinger provided each other with an alibi for Monika’s abduction and murder. You think the four of them were acting in concert?’

  ‘I think it’s a distinct possibility. And it looks a hell of a lot like the discovery of Monika’s remains has been the trigger for two of them being ticked off a list. What I don’t know is if Albrecht is on the list or is the person holding it. Whatever is going on, he and this Dane are both suspects and potential victims.’

  ‘Unless we’re reading this all wrong,’ said Anna.

  ‘But if we are reading this wrong, what is the motive for killing two university compatriots who haven’t seen each other for years? And why the symbolism? We need to talk to the Dane, Mortensen. Do we have anything on where he is now?’

  ‘Thom Glasmacher checked him out. He left Hamburg after his studies and went back to Denmark. Copenhagen, Thom thinks.’

  ‘I’ll get on to Karin Vestergaard—’

  ‘There’s more,’ Anna interrupted. ‘Just by chance, as well as the ex-students I got on the phone, one of the SchuPo commanders based here went to Hamburg at the same time, studying law. She got in touch with me because she knew we were looking into the case again. She said everyone knew, or at least knew of, the “Gothic set”, as they were known.’

  ‘The “Gothic set”?’

  ‘It was apparently their thing – Traxinger, Hensler, Albrecht, Mortensen and – wait for it – Monika Krone. There were others, of course, maybe about twenty of them. They all revolved around a literature professor – Thorsten Rohde – who had set up an informal Gothic Studies club.’

  ‘Damn it,’ said Fabel. ‘I read something about that in the files. Not as specific as that, just that there was some kind of Goth thing going on. I didn’t take it seriously – just thought it was dressing up, that kind of crap.’

  ‘It seems to have been much more serious. I mean more academic and literary. Not just a bunch of losers listening to death-metal.’

  ‘You’re being very scathing, Commissar Wolff. I thought you were into that kind of thing yourself, at one time.’

  ‘Me? You’re kidding. Punk was my thing . . .’ She frowned, reading something in Fabel’s expression. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s just that these two killings . . . there’s more than a touch of the Gothic about them. The Picture of Dorian Gray thing that was going on at the Traxinger scene – then the Edgar Allan Poe-type premature burial of Werner Hensler.’

  ‘You think it’s a serial killer with a literary bent?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t feel right. There’d have to be another murder before it’s officially serial anyway, but this is more personally invested than that. It all lies in the connections between them . . . and with Monika Krone.’ Fabel sipped his tea and looked across the water to the park on the other bank, the spire of the Sankt Johanniskirche in Eppendorf piercing a sheet of blue-white sky above the tree line. The season was changing and Fabel could feel it. ‘There’s a connection we’re just not seeing.’

  ‘Dare I say it, Chef, that connection might be Frankenstein. He’s still on the loose and there hasn’t been a single sighting of him.’

  ‘Even if he did abduct and murder Monika, why would Jochen Hübner want to kill Traxinger and Hensler? No, it’s something else . . .’

  *

  Fabel was not long back in his office when there was a knock at the door and Henk Hermann came in, something dark in his expression.

  ‘How’s it going with the seniors’ home thing?’ asked Fabel.

  ‘Confusing.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I don’t mean the processing – the state prosecutor’s office has agreed that Georg Schmidt will never be competent to stand trial. His mental state is deteriorating so fast that it’s unlikely he will ever remember what he did, far less why he did it. I mean the background. I’ve been reading through Schmidt’s diary and there’s a lot of stuff that doesn’t make sense. At the end of the day I suppose it doesn’t make a difference, but I’m going to check something out before I sign the case off. I’ll get back to you when I’ve got a handle on it. But that’s not what I wanted to see you about.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘There was a call from the Danish National Police headquarters in Copenhagen – a Politidirektør Vestergaard. She wanted you to know she got your email and she’d like you to give her a call.’

  Fabel thanked Henk and when he had left dialled Vestergaard’s number. When he had first met her, Karin Vestergaard had been a tough character to get to know. Fabel had worked with her a few years before and the Danish officer had been edgy and defensive. But despite a frosty start, they had got on well, even though Germans had not been high on her list of favourite nationalities. Fabel had joked with her that he was a Frisian, and there were Frisians in Denmark and the Netherlands, not just Germany.

  He got t
hrough to her straight away. English was their chosen language of communication. They both spoke it perfectly: Fabel because his mother was Scottish and he’d spent some of his youth in Britain, and Vestergaard simply because she was a Dane. There was the usual small talk and catch-up chat, which was neither Fabel’s nor Vestergaard’s forte, before they got down to the case.

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, Jan, your email was a little confusing – do you consider Professor Mortensen a suspect in your case, a witness, or a potential victim?’

  ‘That’s my problem: he could be any of the above. Professor Mortensen, you say?’

  ‘Yes. You’ve picked not just a Danish citizen, but one of our most notable Danish citizens. Paul Mortensen is one of the world’s leading experts on blood cancers.’

  ‘I knew he had studied medicine. Have you located him?’

  ‘That’s the thing – he’s on tour at the moment.’

  ‘On tour?’

  ‘Yep – he’s the Mick Jagger of the haematology world. A lecture and conference tour. Which is why I wanted to get in touch with you quickly. He’s in Paris at the moment, then Amsterdam tomorrow. His last stop before returning to Copenhagen is Hamburg. There’s a conference at the CCH at the end of the week.’

  ‘Do you know where he’s staying?’

  ‘Not yet, but I’d guess one of the hotels near the congress centre.’

  ‘There’s one hotel attached to it but over a hundred in the area,’ said Fabel.

  ‘I’ll check with his wife – she knows his arrangements.’

  ‘Mortensen is married? How long?’

  ‘Yes, he’s married . . .’ Vestergaard sounded puzzled. ‘He has a ten-year-old daughter and a son about seven, why?’

  ‘Happily married?’

  ‘I have no idea, Jan. I guess. What’s this all about?’

  ‘You’ve met his wife?’

  ‘No, but I know of her. She’s a city politician here in Copenhagen.’