‘Anna, I think you should lead the questioning of this witness,’ he said. ‘The girl who found Westland, I mean. It sounds like she might be in a pretty bad way.’
‘Why me, Chef?’ asked Anna. ‘Because I’m a woman?’
‘I just think she might respond better to you.’ Anna had been on Fabel’s team for five years, but he still found her difficult to handle. To understand. Anna Wolff was much younger-looking than her thirty-one years; she had shortish black hair, was no bigger than one-sixty-two centimetres, and strove for a punky look with her dark mascara, firetruck-red lipstick and oversized biker’s jacket. And, despite Fabel doing his best not to notice, she was very attractive. But, most of all, Anna Wolff was by far the toughest, most aggressive member of his team. As well as the most insubordinate.
‘Oh, I see,’ said Anna with an expression of mock enlightenment. ‘Obviously I’m going to be more understanding. Being female, that is. I’m sorry – I forgot that having a dick presents an insuperable obstacle to sympathy.’
‘I’m not being sexist, Anna. I’m being practical, that’s all.’ Fabel sounded annoyed despite himself. ‘Forget it. I’ll talk to her myself.’
‘I was just saying …’
‘Yes, Anna. You’re always “just saying”. I’ll conduct this interview.’ He looked at his watch. It was two-thirty a.m. ‘Werner, you sit in. Anna, you can go off duty.’
‘Oh, come on … all I said …’
‘I’ll have a team briefing at two p.m. tomorrow. I want to see you in my office first, Anna. Be there at one,’ said Fabel. Anna grabbed her leather jacket from the back of the chair and stormed out.
‘You were a bit rough on her, Jan,’ said Werner when she was gone.
‘She goes too far, Werner. You know that. I’m fed up with every order being challenged or commented on. And I’m sick of complaints coming in about Anna.’
‘We used to call it robust policing, Jan.’
‘Those days are gone, Werner. Long gone. This is the twenty-first century.’
‘You know she has a point, Jan.’ Werner looked unsure of himself. ‘I mean, about the male-female thing. You do tend to get Anna to do the female interviews.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Just that, well, don’t take this the wrong way, but you do tend to treat women like they’re a different species.’
‘How can you say that, Werner? My team has always been balanced. Well, maybe not now. Not since …’
Both men became quiet. The name Maria Klee hung unsaid in the air.
‘Forget it, Jan,’ said Werner a second too late. ‘I just think you should go easy on Anna.’
Fabel’s reply was cut off by a uniformed officer conducting a girl in dark jeans and a navy-blue quilted ski jacket into the room. She clutched a woollen hat and scarf in her hands. Fabel guessed that she was not a street girl: the hookers who worked the streets around Herbertstrasse dressed in bright colours and would stand in groups, holding pastel-coloured umbrellas above their heads whether it was raining or not as a sign to potential customers that they were available for business. Their contrived cheerfulness was so that their customers felt less sordid about the trade they plied.
Fabel kept his smile in place but noticed how young the girl was: she looked to Fabel not much older than his own daughter, Gabi. He asked her to sit and tried to do what he could to put her at ease. Christa Eisel was pretty – very pretty – with shoulder-length fair hair. From the plainness of her outfit and her obvious attractiveness, Fabel worked out that she must have been a Herbertstrasse window girl who would have changed into a provocative outfit once she was at work. As they talked, Christa kneaded the hat and scarf on her lap, but there was something approaching defiance in her eyes.
‘We’ll need to take that, I’m afraid,’ Fabel said, smiling. Christa looked down at the bloodstained jacket.
‘It’s no good to me now. I’ve left my gloves downstairs. They’re finished too.’ She slipped the jacket off and handed it to Fabel. Werner placed it into a large plastic forensics bag.
‘How long have you been working the area, Christa?’ asked Fabel.
‘Six months. Just weekends. And not every weekend. I have a slot in one of the windows and I do some escort work occasionally.’
‘Are you supporting a habit, Christa? Sorry, but I have to ask.’
The girl looked genuinely taken aback. ‘No … no, of course not.’
‘What do you do? I mean when you’re not working here.’
‘I’m a student. Uni Hamburg.’
‘Oh really? That’s where I went. I studied history. You?’
‘Medicine.’
Fabel stared at Christa for a moment. ‘Medicine? Then why …?’
‘Money. I want to earn extra money.’
‘But this way?’
‘Why not?’ Again defiance glinted in Christa’s eyes. ‘A lot of students do it for extra cash.’
‘You’re clearly a bright, pretty girl with a lifetime of opportunity ahead of you, Christa. I just don’t understand why you would choose to do what you’re doing. Is this what you think it means to be a woman?’
‘Are you disappointed that I’m not some exploited junkie? You’re right, I choose to do this. It’s my body and I can do what I want with it. And anyway, it’s relatively easy money. A few hours each weekend and I make more than most people do in a month. Trust me, it makes medical school a whole lot easier.’
‘That’s not the point, Christa. God knows in this job I know what the dark side of human nature is like. I just don’t understand why someone like you would seek it out and immerse themselves in it. Believe me, maybe you think you can do this for a year or two and then get on with your life. You can’t. It will stay with you for the rest of your life. Every relationship you have will be coloured by it. You’ll find it impossible to see the good in people.’
‘What’s it to you, Herr Chief Commissar? You trying to save my soul?’
‘This isn’t about your moral well-being, Christa. It’s about placing yourself in danger. You study medicine. Surely you know the risks. To your health, I mean.’
‘And because I study medicine I know how to look after myself. Listen, Herr Fabel, I don’t have to justify myself to you. Women have been exploited by men for centuries. I’m doing a little exploiting back.’ Despite the defiance, Fabel could see that Christa had been badly shaken by what she’d gone through in the last hour or so. He didn’t even know why he was getting into this with her. As she had said, it wasn’t his business. He decided to drop it.
‘It’s your life, Christa …’ Fabel sighed. He looked at the notes before him. ‘Listen, I know this is very hard for you, but I need you to try to remember if there was anything else you saw or heard that you maybe haven’t mentioned in your statement. You saw no one come out of the courtyard? I mean, as you made your way in?’
‘No. No one. It’s not that I’ve forgotten or didn’t notice. I’m sure there was no one there. I use that alley if I’m in a hurry. It cuts across from Erichstrasse through the courtyard. You’ve always got to be on your toes for creeps, so I was paying attention. There was no one.’
‘But that doesn’t make sense. You must have got there moments after the attack.’
‘I was, if the rate of his blood loss was anything to go by. But that doesn’t change the fact that I saw no one come into or go out of the alley.’
‘I heard that you carried out first aid. I take it your medical training kicked in?’
‘For what it was worth, which wasn’t much. He’ll be dead by now. Whoever did that to him was very skilled. A single cut that eviscerated him. It was like the Japanese suicide cut – you know, the seppuku. Straight and very deep. From the amount of bleeding I reckon the abdominal aorta had been nicked. They won’t be able to repair it before he bleeds out.’ Fabel watched Christa’s guileless youthful face as she spoke about a man’s death: her description was clinical, but her voice shook as she spoke and her hands
kneaded the woollen hat on her lap more vigorously.
‘What did he say to you?’
‘I’ve already told them. Before.’
‘I’d like to hear it again, if you don’t mind, Christa.’
‘He was nearly unconscious when I got to him. Shivering. All he said was: “It was a woman. She said she was the Angel.” He was speaking in English. It’s funny, I didn’t recognise him. I didn’t know he was who he was until they told me. All I saw was … I suppose all I saw was a man dying.’ She looked at Fabel earnestly. ‘I’ve never seen anyone die before. I guess I’ll have to get used to it.’
‘You never do.’
When Fabel had no more questions and long after Christa had no more answers, he told her he would arrange for a police car to take her home. She asked if she could be taken to her parents’ house in Barmbek.
‘Can they drop me at the end of the street?’ she asked. ‘My parents … they don’t know anything about what I do …’
After Christa left, Martina Schilmann came into the conference room. She was wearing an expensive-looking dark blue business suit and her blonde hair was gathered up behind her head in a French plait. Looking at her now, for the first time in three years, Fabel remembered why he had found her so attractive. Martina was carrying two mugs of coffee. She placed one in front of Fabel.
‘At least I remember where the canteen is,’ she said, and smiled. ‘Hello, Jan, how are you?’
‘I’m fine.’ He returned her smile weakly. ‘And you?’
‘You sure you’re okay?’
‘Yeah … sorry. Just thinking about doomed youth.’
‘Oh God, I know … the “Happy Hooker”. Did she try to convince you that she was content in her work too? Kidding herself. She is tough, though. I was the first on the scene after her. She was doing a pretty good job of not going to pieces. But it is depressing. She’s just a kid. God knows I saw lots just like her when I was working this beat. Anyway, it’s good to see you again. How have you been?’
‘Fine. You look prosperous.’
‘Business has been good.’ Martina’s expression darkened. ‘Until now. I just can’t believe that we’ve lost one. This could be the end for me. I mean, that’s the whole point of the bloody exercise: to guard someone’s body. Who’s going to want to hire us now?’
‘From what I’ve heard, Martina, you’ve built Schilmann Security into one of Europe’s biggest personal-protection businesses. I would think this is a storm you could weather. Actually, I was surprised when I heard you were personally involved with Westland’s protection. I would have thought you’d be on an ethereal executive level now, guiding lesser mortals from the clouds.’
‘I’m a control freak. Hands-on. Too much hands-on, if I’m honest. We were short-staffed this weekend as well. I’ve got a big Russian tycoon coming in next month and I had to send half my team to liaise with his regular security people. God, I hope I’ve got a big Russian tycoon coming next month. When he gets wind of this he’ll probably tell me to stick it. Anyway, never mind that: are you still involved with the beautiful Dr Eckhardt?’
‘Yep,’ said Fabel. ‘Still involved.’
‘Pity,’ said Martina mischievously.
‘What was the story with Westland?’ asked Fabel. ‘How come he gave you the slip?’
‘What can I tell you? The usual rock-star megalomania. They pay us thousands of euros a day to keep them safe, then think it’s all a game. Sometimes I think we’re there for the cameras more than anything. Status symbols or shit like that. Westland was an arsehole. No big surprise there … He spent half the tour drunk and the other half chasing nineteen-year-old girls. The guy’s in his fifties, for Christ’s sake. To be honest, we saw him as a relatively low risk. Fending off drunks, persistent autograph hunters, paparazzi, that kind of thing. Anyway, we did a double-up on him, me and Lorenz. Lorenz is all bulk and no brains but he’s good for visible presence, if you know what I mean, even if he is getting on a bit. And, like I said, not one of nature’s great thinkers. He’s a Saxon from Görlitz, bless him. Ex-Volkspolizei. Still calls a hamburger a Grilletta and probably jerks off to pictures of Katja Witt wearing a Free German Youth blouse.’
Fabel laughed. ‘You’re pretty scathing for someone from the East yourself.’
‘I’m from Mecklenburg – a totally different proposition from the Valley of the Clueless,’ said Martina with a smug grin, referring to the parts of the former East Germany which had not been able to pick up West German TV before the Wall came down. It was an affectionate jibe: it was exactly in the ‘Valley of the Clueless’ that the Monday Demonstrations had begun the peaceful mass protest movement that ultimately brought down the Communist regime.
‘Anyway,’ continued Martina, ‘we were taking Westland back to the Hotel Vierjahrzeiten from a concert at the Sporthalle arena when he pipes up that he’d like to see the Reeperbahn, never been there, heard all about it, the Beatles, all that crap. I tell him it’s not what it’s cracked up to be and anyway it’s not on the route to the hotel but he makes a fuss and we end up taking him on a brief guided tour.’
‘I would have thought he would have been too tired after a concert,’ said Fabel.
‘Yeah, well … he seemed pretty lively. He was doing a lot of sniffing in the back of the car and I don’t think he had a cold, if you catch my drift. No doubt it’ll all come out in the autopsy. The funny thing was he had pissed off a few people by refusing to attend the post-concert party – tells them he’s too tired and then badgers us to take him to the Reeperbahn. Anyway, we do the tour thing but all Westland is interested in is seeing Herbertstrasse and he starts giggling like a schoolgirl. So we take him. Of course, because it’s Herbertstrasse and because I’m a woman, I can’t go in so I drop him and Lorenz at one end and go and wait at the other. The Davidwache end. Naturally, Westland finds it easy to bewilder Lorenz and all the time I think he’s with Westland he’s actually just standing around like an idiot waiting for him at the far end. Next thing I know Westland’s trying to repack his intestines and my business is down the tubes.’
‘You say he was pretty insistent about going to Herbertstrasse. Specifically Herbertstrasse and not Grosse Freiheit. Do you think there’s any chance it was prearranged? That maybe he had agreed to meet someone after losing you by cutting through Herbertstrasse?’
Martina furrowed her brow in thought for a moment. ‘I doubt it. Could be, I suppose, but it all seemed pretty spontaneous to me.’
‘It’s just that it seems odd. If Westland was looking for a little bit of cheap excitement, then why go to the bother of giving you the slip where he did? I find it strange that he didn’t just go with one of the window girls. You say he told you he had never been to Herbertstrasse before?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So either he tore along Herbertstrasse and out the other end before you got there, or he cut through the side alley at number seven and out past the erotic-art museum. That looks pretty planned to me – like he knew where he was going.’
‘He probably didn’t. Like I say, I still think it was all spur-of-the-moment stuff.’
Martina went through the evening in detail: exact times, whom Westland had talked to, what he had talked about, how the concert had gone. Martina became, once more, the police officer and without prompting gave Fabel all the information he needed. Westland had made two calls before the concert: one to his wife, the second to his accountant regarding an investment or deal he was involved in.
‘He spent some time alone in his dressing room before going on stage,’ explained Martina. ‘It’s possible he took or made calls then, on his cellphone. There was no contact that I’m aware of after the performance, other than a brief call to the woman who was organising the concert. She was the one who wanted him to attend the post-concert party with Hamburg’s good and great. I got the impression she – I mean the organiser – wasn’t too chuffed when he cried off. After all, it was the whole point of the exercise: to raise awaren
ess of the charity and after all that effort he couldn’t be bothered doing a simple meet-and-greet afterwards. He was more interested in getting to the Reeperbahn.’
‘We’ll check his cellphone,’ said Fabel.
‘Oh, didn’t you know? His mobile’s been swiped. Wallet, too. And he had a diary – like a mini-organiser – that he always had with him. Whoever killed him nicked that as well.’
‘So it could be a robbery?’
Martina gave a bitter laugh. ‘No. But it could be the killer trying to disguise it as a robbery. The theft was amateur. The killing’s the work of art.’
They talked for a while longer. Professional though her report was, there was nothing in what Martina had to say that offered any substantial leads.
‘Not much help, is it?’ Martina read his mind.
‘Not much. But there again, this whole thing could simply be what it seems – a random senseless attack.’
‘By the Angel?’ Martina asked. ‘You don’t really think she’s come back after ten years?’
‘Who knows? According to the girl who found Westland, the wound inflicted on him was very professional. Single cut. One stroke.’
‘Since when are hookers experts on knife wounds?’
‘Since they started studying medicine at Hamburg Uni,’ said Fabel flatly. ‘If you remember, the Angel was a dab hand with a blade.’
‘I’m not likely to forget,’ said Martina. ‘I was stationed here when the second last murder took place. I won’t forget that crime scene in a hurry. We found him dead in his car in Seilerstrasse. Minus genitalia. The last one was dumped in a corner of Heligen-Geist-Feld. Also minus working parts. That’s why I don’t think this is the Angel. No castration, the fatal knife wound was in the belly, not the throat … and there’s a gap of nearly ten years. The other thing is that the Angel never stole from her victims. Other than their love tackle, that is. And anyway, like I said, I’ve seen the Angel’s work. If that girl hadn’t told me what Westland had said, I wouldn’t have made the connection.’
The Valkyrie Song Page 4