by Lars Schutz
Ichigawa sensed that was all she was going to say. She shook her head barely perceptibly. ‘A serial killer. We’ve had our fair share of nastiness, but not like this. Mothers strangling their kids, husbands sticking an axe between their wife’s shoulders. But this – this is the stuff you only read about in American crime novels.’
‘Not without reason. Serial murders are actually a very rare phenomenon – rarer in Germany than in the USA. You’re more likely to die in a plane crash or get struck by lightning than run into a serial killer.’
‘Try telling that to the victims’ families—’
She leant her head against the window. ‘That’s the tricky thing about probabilities. As vanishingly unlikely as they are, they’re still possible.’
Ichigawa turned down a side street, parking outside an enormous property. The front garden was so overgrown it looked like it was trying to hide the one-storey building behind it.
‘One more thing, Frau Wyler.’ As Ichigawa took the key out of the ignition, the blaring radio fell silent, lending her monotone voice additional weight. ‘I know Jan better than you do. He’s a brilliant analyst. But he’s every bit as dangerous as the people he hunts.’
11
Jan took a deep breath of cold, clear air.
The evening sun was already shimmering scarlet on the snow-covered rooftops. Lünner’s timber house lay in Fehl-Ritzhausen, an area full of new buildings and about fifteen minutes from Bad Marienberg by car. In summer, at least. With all the snow on the roads, Köllner and he had taken nearly twice that long. He hadn’t been there many times before. Just for a few football games as a left-winger against the SG Fehl-Ritzhausen youth team, all of them losses.
‘Why did you want me to come with you?’ asked Köllner.
His coarse-featured face gave him a crass appearance, but his vigilant grey eyes made it obvious he didn’t miss much. Vigilance that prompted him to ask questions like that.
‘I wanted to discuss something personal,’ replied Jan. They were already standing outside the front door.
‘Which was?’
‘How do you put up with Stüter?’
The Inspector laughed cautiously, almost as though afraid Stüter was eavesdropping.
‘I imagine you two have become firm friends over the past couple of hours,’ he remarked ironically.
‘Everything you tell me stays between us, rest assured.’
‘Stüter’s not a bad person.’ Köllner shrugged. ‘He’s a policeman through and through. Old school. If it was up to him, he’d decide everything himself. Which makes him a difficult boss.’
‘You’re observant. Even so, I respect how stoically you put up with him.’
‘He’s an old friend of my father’s,’ explained Köllner. ‘My father is a police chief in Wiesbaden. I think Stüter just doesn’t want to let him down. He wants to make me a good officer. You studied psychology – shouldn’t be hard for you to deal with him.’
‘I know people, but that doesn’t mean I like them.’ Jan nodded at the door. ‘Shall we?’
Köllner nodded, puffing air into his cheeks. ‘You want to do the talking?’
‘I’m afraid you can’t avoid delivering bad news in this job.’
‘I know, it’s just—’
‘Fine, I understand,’ replied Jan good-naturedly, ringing the bell. He prepared himself to deal with a dramatic reaction from Lünner’s girlfriend, Viola Backes. A fugue state. Disorientation. Racing pulse, nausea, sweating. He hadn’t simply read about it in books – he’d witnessed it first-hand.
The front door was flung open with such force that the wilted wreath on the door rocked.
‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ The blonde woman stared at him, her eyes glittering, thin as a reed and as tall as he was. Her cheeks were stained with running mascara, like war-paint.
Jan stammered. ‘Um, I – I wanted to tell you differently, but yes.’
She punched him square in the face.
Not a slap – a perfect right cross.
He yelled and stumbled back, holding his nose, which felt crushed.
Viola Backes buried her face into her hands, sobbing, then turned on her heel and marched back down the corridor.
‘Hey, stay where you are!’ bellowed Köllner, with more energy than Jan would have expected.
The woman continued walking, undeterred. ‘And I know who the fucking killer is!’
Köllner grabbed Jan’s shoulders. ‘You all right?’
He took his hand from his nose. It was covered in blood. Not the first time someone had clocked him one, unfortunately – not by a long chalk.
The Inspector gave him a tissue. He took it gratefully, tore it in half and stuffed the two pieces into his nostrils. ‘Did you hear what she just said?’
‘She knows who the killer is—’
12
‘My sister will be here soon.’ Frau Ziehner put the phone back onto the tiled table, nervously dabbing the corners of her eyes with a tissue.
‘It’s best to have somebody here to look after you. If you like, we can fetch a minister too,’ said Rabea, taking the woman’s folded hands in hers. She could empathise better than Adelheid Ziehner probably imagined.
‘Thank you – thank you for your help. But for the moment my sister is the only minister I want.’ The woman, tall and in her mid-fifties, brushed a lock of blonde hair back from her face. ‘I had a kind of premonition when Leonard didn’t come back to the house last night. And this morning I heard about those two bodies. First, I thought he might have spent the night at the pub. They have a little hostel there, and sometimes, when he’s drunk too much – but that doesn’t matter any more.’
‘Can you tell us where he was going that night?’ Ichigawa arched her back. Her body language spoke volumes about how uncomfortable she felt. Rabea could almost hear her professional façade cracking.
‘He was at the printer’s. He wanted to check everything was in order.’ The woman fiddled with the bronze brooch on the collar of her blouse. ‘I spoke to the printer. His car’s still there.’
Ichigawa and Rabea exchanged a brief glance. So, the killer had overpowered him at the printer’s.
‘Do have a biscuit, please.’ Frau Ziehner pointed at the table, where a pot of tea and some biscuits were laid out. Her smile looked like a grimace.
A gigantic tiled stove dominated the living room. The warmth it radiated had overheated the room so much that Rabea’s forehead was beaded with sweat. All the furniture dated from the beginning of the last century. Monstrous, bulky and dark. Books in various stages of disintegration were stacked on the shelves. Their dusty, slightly sweet aroma singed her nose. She felt as if she was in an antique shop.
Occasionally Rabea was astonished by how few gestures and how little information she needed to understand a person. No wonder she’d had so many dates where she dismissed the guy after fifteen minutes.
Frau Ziehner sought refuge in routines, but the moment of collapse would come. It always did. Until then, however, she would try to smile away her loss, as she’d probably smiled away so many over the course of her life.
At least Rabea could use Frau Ziehner’s composure to ask her questions calmly.
Ichigawa cleared her throat. ‘Did your husband have any enemies? Anybody threatening him recently?’
That question was like a three-pointer in basketball, which Rabea had played at school. Nine times out of ten it was pointless, but if you scored it was a major step towards success. She was keen to see how the woman reacted to Ichigawa’s question but wasn’t getting her hopes up.
Adelheid Ziehner sipped her tea, her fingers trembling. It was rare for a murderer with a modus operandi like this one to be openly at daggers drawn with his victims. Nonethless she nodded, putting the cup back on the table. ‘My husband is a publisher – was – as I’m sure you know,’ she said. ‘A particular kind of publisher. In the industry they refer to his business model as a vanity press. He had no editorial staff, no qual
ity control. He printed anything authors sent him in their desperation to be published. For accordingly high sums, of course.’
‘And one of these authors fell out with him?’
‘One? Dozens!’ Frau Ziehner made a sound that sounded grotesquely like a sob and a laugh at the same time. ‘Leonard got them to sign contracts by making promises he didn’t keep. Painted pictures for them of a great literary career and interviews in the cultural section. In reality, their god-awful tomes are mouldering in our basement. Most of them only woke up to reality once they saw the bill for printing and storage.’
Ichigawa knitted her brows. ‘Must have made them quite angry, having their dreams burst like a soap bubble.’
‘There were complaints, of course, nasty emails, sometimes threats.’ Her index finger traced the edge of her teacup before stopping abruptly. ‘None of them worried me, though. Only one of them was really unpleasant.’
13
‘Sorry about your nose.’ Frau Backes fidgeted in her chair. ‘Is it broken?’
Jan took out one of the crumpled wodges of tissue and stroked the bridge of his nose. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, although that’s exactly what it felt like.
The young woman was clinging to her glass of water as though her life depended on it. ‘Marek often used to be away for long periods of time. But he’d always tell me. He’d always call. When I heard the news about the two bodies, I put two and two together.’
She raised her hand as though to run it through her hair but lowered it again halfway through the gesture. She continued, ‘And then it was true. I was furious. Not sure with whom. Probably myself, mostly. Because I should have seen it coming.’
‘It’s fine.’ Jan rested his forearm on the dining table, which stood across the dead journalist’s living room.
If he hadn’t already known Marek Lünner was a reporter, he’d have realised by now. Overflowing bookshelves, half an archive’s worth of newspapers, the desk piled high with documents, and countless maps on the walls.
‘So, you know somebody who threatened Marek, then?’
‘Just a minute.’ Frau Backes stood up, shakily supporting herself on the table and chair. She went over to the desk and leafed through some sheaves of paper, finally taking out a sheet and returning.
She slapped it down onto the table. ‘If this isn’t a threat, then I don’t know what is.’
Jan slid the piece of paper across to him and Köllner. Somebody had scribbled all over it in black ballpoint pen. It took some effort to decipher the florid, sprawling writing.
Herr Lünner,
I won’t be suppressed! The truth won’t be suppressed!
If you don’t reveal this betrayal, there will be consequences. If you continue to ignore me, then you’re no better than that criminal Leonard Ziehner . . .
Jan didn’t need to read any further.
When he looked up, his gaze met Köllner’s. The Inspector’s eyes were wide – the young man had cottoned on immediately.
Jan couldn’t read the signature at the bottom of the note. ‘What’s the name of the guy who wrote this?’
Viola Backes narrowed her eyes. ‘Francesco Zanetti. He wanted Marek to write a story about some publisher. Apparently, he was scamming authors in a big way.’
She put both palms on the table, her posture tensing. ‘The bastard sent one of his books with it. I took a look inside. Total crap.’
Köllner could scarcely contain his excitement. He kept inhaling deeply and kneading his hands. ‘Did you ever meet him?’
The young woman shook her head.
That didn’t matter. Jan took out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. Rabea had to be told straight away.
A man who’d threatened one of the victims and quarrelled with the other. Could they have hit a bullseye already?
14
The basement was definitely not what Rabea had expected. It was neither dim nor dusty, and it didn’t smell of damp. Shrink-wrapped books were stacked chest-high on dozens of pallets. Three fluorescent tubes lit the room. One was flickering, throwing diffuse plays of shadow across the walls.
‘Give me a moment.’ Frau Ziehner opened a file and skimmed through it.
Rabea crossed her arms. The weariness she’d felt in the car was gone. Her heart was pounding. Could they have struck gold already? Was it really this simple – a serial killer well-known to one of the victims?
‘Here it is!’ Frau Ziehner tapped a page. ‘Francesco Zanetti. Print runs in the thousands. They’re on one of the pallets over there, on the far left.’
Ichigawa nodded and walked across, picking up one of the books at random. Her eyes narrowed, she read the title aloud: Letters of Death?
Rabea’s heartbeat quickened. She crossed the basement and picked up a book. The words Ichigawa had read aloud were printed in a silver serif font on a black background. She tore off the plastic shrink-wrap excitedly and opened the book.
The print was so tiny the lines almost looked like thin lines. There were no paragraphs and no punctuation. Apparently, nothing but muddled fragments.
She skimmed one of the lines: ‘—blood-red fear death love deep black thought evil sorrow—’
Total confusion. No wonder the author had had to reach into his own pocket to get these scribblings published.
‘Did you ever meet Herr Zanetti?’ asked Ichigawa, who was still staring uneasily at her copy.
‘No, thank God.’ She was looking at the desk, but her eyes seemed to be peering through it. ‘But my husband went to see him once because he fell behind with his invoices. Zanetti didn’t want to pay – he called my husband a fraud and a schemer. Said he was going to contact some journalist to bring the truth about him to light.’
The old woman was supporting herself on the arm of an office chair. Her self-control was crumbling. Her whole body was trembling. ‘The man’s insane.’
An idea struck Rabea. ‘This journalist, the one Zanetti was going to contact – was his name Marek Lünner, by any chance?’
‘How did you know that?’ Frau Ziehner wheeled around.
Instead of answering, Rabea turned to Anita: ‘We’ve got to call Stüter immediately!’
She was just stuffing the book into her jacket pocket when her smartphone vibrated.
A glance at the display. Jan.
‘We’ve got a suspect,’ they said in unison.
‘Francesco Zanetti—’ said Rabea.
‘You’ve got his address?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then tell Anita and Stüter. They should get a search warrant, put off that bloody press conference and get a SWAT team on standby. We’ll meet in twenty minutes in Hachenburg.’
‘Got it, see you soon.’
‘See you soon – and Rabea: good work!’
Her heart leapt. When Jan had mentioned the SWAT team, she’d realised how serious this discovery was. Most likely they didn’t just have a suspect – they had the killer!
She put her phone back in her pocket. Ichigawa was already dialling, while Frau Ziehner glanced indecisively from one to the other.
‘A’ and ‘B’.
Letters of Death.
Evidently Zanetti had made his book’s title a reality.
Hopefully they could keep the number of victims at two.
15
‘A, B, C, D, E, F, G
H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P . . .’
Somebody was singing quietly. A hoarse voice somewhere in the darkness.
‘Q, R, S, T, U, V,
W, X, Y and Z.’
Tugba tried to move, but all her muscles were stiff. The back of her head was throbbing. Her bare shoulders were freezing. Where was she? Why wasn’t she still in her apartment?
The past hours – or days, she didn’t know any more – felt like one long black corridor.
Her heart was thudding. Who was out there? Who was singing?
‘He – hello?’ The words were barely audible from her parched mouth. ‘Help, I n
eed help!’
Somebody had to explain what was going on. Around her everything was dark. The air stank. She couldn’t place the stench, but it sent a shiver down her spine.
‘Who are you?’
No answer.
‘Then ABC, the cat’s come round for tea.’
Footsteps. The voice was coming closer.
‘DEF, the monkey is the chef.’
Now it was directly in front of her.
‘You’ve got to wait.’
The footsteps faded again.
Tugba shut her eyes. Her head. Her memory. Everything was empty. She felt nothing.
Fell back into nothing.
16
‘Dammit, what are they doing here?’ Chief Superintendent Rolf Stüter was seething with rage, his eyes glued to the OB van.
Rabea jumped as he hissed.
Still, she understood. There could only be one reason why one of Germany’s biggest broadcasters had sent a camera team to the sleepy town of Langenbach: somebody on the investigation team had blabbed.
The two police vans pulled up on a field in the heart of Langenbach, close to Zanetti’s house. Without their flashing lights, of course. Ichigawa and the SWAT team were in one while the second held the remaining members of the team.
‘Köllner, keep the TV twats out of our hair,’ growled Stüter, flinging open one of the sliding doors. ‘I need a serious word with Ichigawa first.’
‘Off to a great start,’ muttered Jan, who was sitting next to Rabea.
They climbed out. The evening was oddly scented with danger – as though some chemical hung in the air, transmitting a simple message: something isn’t right.
The SWAT team, practised and silent, swarmed out of their van. In their combat gear they looked as though they’d leapt straight out of some sci-fi movie.
One of them took off his protective helmet and approached them. His black balaclava still covered most of his face. Vigilant blue eyes glinted through the eye slits, beneath black brows.
‘Name’s Eller. Head of Operations.’
