‘My guess is that they’re heading for Albrecht’s place. He’s got a penthouse apartment overlooking the river.’ She sighed. ‘It’s going to be a long night.’
‘You think it’s him? Albrecht?’
‘The Chef says we should keep an eye on him, so we keep an eye on him. But no, I don’t. But he’s hiding something, that’s for sure.’
‘Enough to warrant a four man surveillance?’
Anna shrugged. ‘We need to change faces. Albrecht’s not stupid and, if he does have something to hide, then he’ll be watchful.’
They arrived just in time to see the tail lights of Albrecht’s Lamborghini as it tipped into the downward access of the private garage beneath his building. Anna saw that Dirk Hechtner had already parked further down the street.
She called Fabel on his cell phone. ‘Looks like it’s going to be a long night. Albrecht picked up a woman and he’s taken her back to his apartment.’
‘Do you think she’s the mystery woman who he claims can give him an alibi for the night of Hensler’s death?’ asked Fabel.
‘Doubt it. Looks more like a casual pick-up. Do you want a team parked on him all night?’
Fabel thought for a moment. ‘No. Leave it. Send Dirk and Sandra home, but you and Thom stay put until I get there, then you can clock off.’
‘You going to watch him all night?’
‘No. If it looks like his guest is staying the night, then I’ll leave it at that. But I’d like to make sure.’
52
Fabel sat in his BMW, parked across the street from the building Tobias Albrecht had designed and now lived in. Again he found himself grudgingly admiring the architect’s work and wondering why the Bruno Tesch Centre in Altona had been so dissonant with its context. Fabel knew that Albrecht had bought this building outright when it had been a derelict grain store, similar to those found in the Speicherstadt. Once he had renovated and extended the original building, Albrecht had rented out the luxury apartments, retaining the penthouse for himself.
Hamburg was famed for its brick architecture, including the Polizei Hamburg’s own Davidwache, the world’s most famous police station and a protected monument. It was said that Hamburg architects could knit with brick; Albrecht had acknowledged his debt as an architect to predecessors like Hans and Oskar Gerson or Fritz Höger by restoring to its former glory the red brickwork of the original grain store. The twenty-first century made its presence felt through the huge windows that offered the apartments impressive views over the Elbe. It was the kind of home and view you paid through the nose for and Albrecht, Fabel realized, was a rich guy in a rich city. Germany’s richest city.
Albrecht had done well for himself, all right; he had everything that he could have wanted. Traxinger had had all he could have wanted. Werner Hensler had had all that he wanted. Yet all three seemed to have had an inexplicable emptiness in their lives. And Fabel was beginning strongly to suspect that the source of that emptiness was Monika Krone. Perhaps that emptiness came specifically from their involvement in what had happened that night when Monika had disappeared, fifteen years before.
The question Fabel asked himself was whether he was sitting outside the apartment of a killer or a potential victim.
His cell phone rang. The caller ID displayed the Murder Commission’s number.
‘Hi, Chef, it’s Anna.’
‘I thought you were heading home.’
‘I was, but there was something I needed to check out. I did, and now you need to know something.’
‘What?’
‘There was an incident during the surveillance tonight. I didn’t think it was important or even relevant—’
‘What kind of incident?’
‘A guy came on to me and I brushed him off. Then I thought he was going to assault me—’
‘Oh shit, Anna, not again. Was he hurt?’
‘Nothing that an icepack wouldn’t sort out. Anyway, it turned out to be my mistake and he was returning something I’d left on the bar. But that’s not important. The other thing is he looked like some middle-rank thug, so I thought I’d check him out.’
‘And?’
‘And he’s anything but. His name is Marco Tempel and he’s a doctor. He lives in Bremen.’
‘He’s come a long way for a night out.’
‘I wish that’s all that’s going on with him. Do you remember me telling you about the incident five years ago that caused Albrecht to tone down his womanizing – or at least be more discreet and careful with it?’
‘The woman who stabbed him and committed suicide?’ asked Fabel.
‘That’s the one. Her name was Lara Tempel. My dance partner’s sister.’
‘Shit.’ Fabel looked up at the penthouse. There were no lights on that he could see. ‘And if he’s a doctor, he’ll have access to drugs. Maybe he carries around a supply of xylazine. Do we have an address for him here in Hamburg?’
‘Nope. I’m assuming he’s staying in a hotel somewhere. But my concerns are more immediate.’
‘You think he’s after Albrecht?’
‘I think it’s a hell of a coincidence that he was in the same bar as the guy his sister tried to kill, and that he clearly knew Thom Glasmacher was working the surveillance with me. I’m beginning to think the little act he put on was to distract us and get us off Albrecht’s tail.’
‘The woman . . .’
‘Exactly. She’s maybe in it with him. A honeytrap.’
Fabel was already out of his car and crossing the street. ‘Get here as quickly as you can, Anna. And bring back-up.’
53
The front door of the apartment building was locked and there was no sign of anyone in the foyer. Fabel kept his thumb down on the button for Albrecht’s penthouse apartment; when he got no answer he pressed the buzzer for the concierge. Through the glass door, Fabel saw a young man in a dark green uniform appear from a side door into the hall. He had a flop of blond hair above an expressionless, slightly girlish face. When he reached the main door, he made no attempt to open it, instead gazing blankly, silently and unsmilingly at Fabel through the glass.
For a moment Fabel thought of using the door intercom to explain the nature of his visit, but annoyed by the concierge’s arrogance, he held up with one hand his police ID for the young man to see, while thumping heavily on the glass with his other fist. The concierge jumped, then pressed a buzzer to admit Fabel.
‘You . . .’ Fabel said flatly. ‘Take me up to the penthouse and let me in to Herr Albrecht’s apartment.’
‘Don’t you . . . I mean, shouldn’t you have a warrant or something?’ The flustered concierge scrabbled around for the scraps of his authority.
‘I have reason to believe that someone in this building is in immediate danger. Do as I say. Now.’
The journey up in the elevator was silent, the previously arrogant young concierge looking more than a little afraid.
‘When we get up there, let me in to the apartment,’ said Fabel. ‘Then get back down to the lobby right away. I’ve called for back-up and I need you to let them in as soon as they arrive. Got it?’
The concierge nodded.
It was like coming up and out into the night sky. The elevator doors opened and Fabel and the concierge stepped out into a wide landing like a huge summerhouse encapsulated on three sides by glass walls, the other wall marble with an oak door set into it. With the exception of the elevator’s winding house above them, the roof too was glazed and the moon-edged shadows of clouds slid across it. Fabel counted two glass doors out onto the roof terrace. Beyond the glazing he could see Hamburg sparkle in the dark. For a moment he felt disconcerted, remembering another time he had watched from an elevated position as Hamburg sparkled below him. He shook the feeling off.
Crossing to the glass doors he tried them, rattling the handles. They were locked. He leaned into the glass, shielding his eyes with cupped hands, and peered across the roof terrace. It was difficult to see clearly in the dark but suddenly the terrace wa
s lit up. He turned to see that the concierge had turned on the roof lights from a switch next to the penthouse door. Fabel nodded his thanks and went back to searching the shadows for anyone lurking. It was clear.
He went across to the penthouse door and pressed the buzzer. No answer.
‘Did you see Herr Albrecht go out again this evening?’ he asked the concierge. ‘Or see his female guest leave?’
‘No . . . but that doesn’t mean they didn’t. All the residents have access to the underground garage. Sometimes they come and go all day, taking the elevator down to the basement. I have a monitor at my desk, but if I’m not there, I don’t see them.’
‘So similarly someone could have got in that way too?’
‘Only residents. Unless it was someone who went in through the garage and had a code for the elevator. It only works by code from the basement.’
Fabel tried the door to the penthouse, but it was locked. He nodded again to the concierge and drew his service automatic. At the sight of the gun, the young man froze, the colour draining from his face.
‘It’s all right,’ said Fabel, less harshly. ‘Unlock the door, then go down to the lobby and wait for the others to arrive.’
The concierge did as he was told. Once the penthouse was unlocked and the young man was back in the elevator, Fabel swung the door open and called out into the darkness.
‘Police! This is Principal Chief Commissar Fabel of the Polizei Hamburg. Herr Albrecht? Can you hear me, Herr Albrecht?’
Darkness and silence.
Aware that he was a target framed in the doorway and illuminated by the landing lights, Fabel stepped into the apartment and immediately sideways, cursing as he knocked over a low table and sent the lamp it held crashing to the floor. Keeping his gun pointed into the darkness of the apartment, he skimmed the wall with the flat of his hand until he found a light switch. The apartment lit up. There was no one there, no sign of a struggle, nothing out of the ordinary.
‘Herr Albrecht?’ Fabel called out once more. Nothing.
He scanned the apartment again, taking a wider sweep. It was exactly what he would have expected from Albrecht: chic, cool, oozing a quiet, restrained but obvious expensiveness. Strangely, it was also completely devoid of personality.
The living area was a huge room with a double-height ceiling. Across from where he stood, Fabel could see his own faint ghost reflected in the vast windows that looked out onto the Elbe and Hamburg beyond. The kitchen and dining areas, both large enough to be rooms in their own right, were open-plan to the living room. There were three doors off the open-plan area. Bedrooms and a bathroom, Fabel guessed, and again was transported to another time and another search of a suspect’s apartment where he had tried to guess what was behind a closed door.
He turned and saw the painting on the wall by the entrance.
Life-size, framed by writhing ivy and acanthus and her nude body pale-skinned and ethereal in the moonlight, Monika Krone stared at Fabel from the graveyard in which she stood. Despite his situation, Fabel was momentarily distracted by Monika’s cruel, beautiful, green-eyed gaze. Her hair blazed deep red around her head and her lips were slightly parted as if shaping a word or a kiss.
Shit, he thought, that’s why he agreed to see us so quickly at his offices, he didn’t want us to interview him here. Albrecht had denied that he had had any significant contact with Detlev Traxinger since their days at university, but the picture on the wall was clearly, unmistakably a Traxinger original. And it was also a very clear indication that Albrecht, like the painter, had been obsessed with Monika Krone.
Again Fabel felt haunted by memories of a different, much more modest apartment, but another in which a Traxinger picture had looked completely out of place with the decor.
Tearing his gaze from the green eyes that had held him fixed, Fabel snapped his attention back to the apartment. He called out for Albrecht again, once more identifying himself as a police officer. He could hear approaching police sirens, outside and below. Fabel crossed the room and swung wide the first door, which opened up on the glistening onyx and marble of a luxurious bathroom. Empty. The second room was empty too: a largish bedroom that had been converted into a study.
Fabel crossed the main area of the penthouse, this time to the third door on the far side. Again he called out for Albrecht but noticed that he automatically trod lightly as he crossed the polished redwood floor.
He swung the door open. It was a bedroom suite with a short hall leading to the bedroom itself; a marble and glass cave of a bathroom to one side of the hall, a dressing room to the other. All the doors were open, all the lights were on.
Fabel moved slowly along the hall, his gun held in both hands, sweeping as he went. The dressing room and bathroom were empty. When he reached the end of the hall, he snapped around the corner, checking there was no one lying in wait for him in the main bedroom.
But there was no one in the bedroom. No one living.
It was another huge room: the bedroom, en suite and dressing room perhaps slightly out of proportion, too big in comparison to the rest of the penthouse. For Tobias Albrecht the bedroom, it would seem, had been the most important room in the apartment; the focus in his life. Not that he would be using it any more.
Fabel heard the sounds of footsteps from behind him in the main living area, then Anna Wolff’s voice as she called out.
‘In here . . .’ he called back without turning around. His attention was fully focused on the bed.
Anna Wolff, Thom Glasmacher and Dirk Hechtner walked into the bedroom.
‘Oh shit . . .’ he heard Anna say as she came to stand beside him. Glasmacher and Hechtner joined them and the four formed a row at the foot of the huge, low bed.
Tobias Albrecht lay on top of the covers. He was naked, his legs together, his hands neatly set at his sides, as if he had been laid out by an undertaker. His pale skin was even paler than it had been in life. It was normally a sign of post-mortem lividity, all of the body’s blood sinking to and empurpling the low-gravity points in the body, the rest bleached of colour. But Fabel didn’t need a forensic expert to tell him that that wasn’t the reason for Albrecht’s pallor. Arced and stretching up the wall behind the bed, like a single, wide-spanned crimson wing, a spume of arterial blood had spattered across the expensive wallpaper. The pillow and bedding on the right side of his neck was black-red where the last leachings of blood had soaked into the fabric as arterial pressure had diminished. A chilled, shuddering end.
In all of his years as a murder detective, Jan Fabel had never been able to get beyond the gut reaction to blood. Something deep in the oldest part of your brain responded to the sight of it, no matter how often you saw it. As he looked at the spray on the wall, Fabel found himself thinking back to Helmut Wohlmann, the murdered centenarian in the seniors’ home, and how little blood there had been.
But even the blood-splashed wall and bed weren’t the most disturbing aspects of the scene: a thick shaft of wood, about twenty centimetres long and eight centimetres in diameter, had been rammed into Albrecht’s chest. There was practically no blood around the stake, which jutted nauseatingly from just below his sternum.
‘Shit . . .’ Anna repeated. ‘It’s like he didn’t move. The blood’s a single spatter pattern. Unless he was restrained, somehow.’ She nodded, her face distorted in disgust, to the stake embedded in Albrecht’s chest. ‘From the lack of blood around that, I’m guessing it was done post-mortem.’
‘It’s symbolic, not the cause of death,’ said Fabel. ‘We’re supposed to derive some sort of meaning from it. Or maybe the meaning is purely personal to the killer. And my guess would be that the restraint that kept him motionless while his artery was severed was pharmaceutical, rather than physical. I’ll lay odds we find xylazine in his system.’
‘You think it’s the same guy?’ asked Glasmacher. ‘The modus is completely different.’
‘It’s the same guy – or maybe the same guys, plural. He or they maybe k
ill in different ways, but this is all to do with a single agenda. He kills for the same reason. And this is his third victim, and that qualifies him as a serial.’
‘But if Marco Tempel is behind this, what’s his motive for the other two killings?’ asked Anna.
‘I’d like to ask him that in person. Get in touch with the Polizei Niedersachsen in Bremen and tell them to get round to his home, just in case he heads back there. In the meantime get as many people as you need onto finding out where he’s staying in Hamburg.’
‘Yes, Chef.’
*
Back down in the apartment building’s foyer, the young concierge stood talking to a uniformed SchuPo. The youth was white-faced, his eyes darting in that exhausted-agitated way Fabel had seen in so many witnesses and bystanders to murder. Even though the concierge hadn’t seen the body, a murder had been committed in his building. Fabel had seen the sequence so many times before: shock causing adrenalin and cortisone to flood the system creating what felt like an inappropriate but deeply unpleasant excitement, then the withdrawal, the crash, as the initial buzz faded and the stress and the disquiet remained. Murder, he had learned, was only a concept to most people: vague, indirect. But when murder came too close, it shook the world beneath their feet.
Fabel went over to him and smiled. ‘You okay, son?’
He nodded behind a weak smile. Then shook his head, giving up the pretence. ‘I can’t believe it. Herr Albrecht was our most important resident. He designed this building. He used to talk to me whenever he passed. I just can’t believe it.’
‘I know,’ said Fabel. ‘Herr Albrecht had company this evening – an attractive dark-haired woman – you’re sure you didn’t see her?’
The concierge shook his head.
‘Did Herr Albrecht have any other visitors over the last few days? I know you said they could come and go through the basement garage, but if they came here alone – I mean without Herr Albrecht bringing them – then maybe you saw them as they passed through the foyer.’
‘Herr Albrecht had lots of visitors. He tried to be discreet about them, but I did see them occasionally. On the monitor.’
The Ghosts of Altona Page 27