by Lars Schutz
They were finished.
The words had been flitting through Rabea’s head since last night, and again they popped into her mind as she parked the Renault in the large gravel car park.
A dead policeman. A kidnapped woman. A Chief Superintendent on the verge of a nervous breakdown. And a death threat against Jan. As if they hadn’t had enough catastrophes already.
She got out of the car loaned to her by the Hachenburg police, immediately zipping her soft-shell jacket up to her chin. Clouds of condensation drifted from her mouth with every breath. The day had begun with a radiant blue sky and a bitter cold that crept even through her thick thermal underwear.
By the time the crime-scene technicians and, inevitably, the media had arrived last night, she and Jan had already gone back to their rooms. The hotel had given her boss a new suite. His whole corridor was cordoned off – it was part of the crime scene.
She hadn’t got much more sleep. Instead, she’d tossed and turned, trying to drive all the images of the dead man out of her brain. A hopeless task.
At some point around eight she’d got a text from Jan: not going straight to the team HQ. At my old stadium, if you’re looking for me. Need to think.
What old stadium? was the first thought that crossed her mind. She did need to speak to him. There was something he urgently needed to know.
He hadn’t responded to her calls, so she’d asked at the hotel reception.
‘He must mean the Hardt Löwenzahn Stadium,’ said the young woman at the desk after a moment’s pause, before giving her extensive directions.
She’d found it after only one wrong turn.
Rabea crossed the parking area, past Jan’s Mercedes, and entered the grounds. Looming fir trees encircled the space, casting it into shadow even on this bright morning. On the other side of the pitch, close to the outside line, was a barbeque hut in dire need of a fresh coat of paint. The smell of pine needles was all-pervasive.
Rabea had played club football for several years herself. Striker, a position that seemed made for her. Basketball, too. The sight of the snowy, uneven pitch conjured up memories of ankle injuries and bruised shins.
On a bench by the barbeque hut she spotted Jan, a dark, hunched figure.
As she trudged across the grounds, she saw he was moving his hand to his mouth at regular intervals. Clouds of smoke rose around him.
She frowned. Since when did he smoke?
Then the smell reached her nose, and it wasn’t of cigarettes . . .
‘Since when do you smoke weed?’ she asked as she approached him. It didn’t fit with her mental image of Jan. He was controlled in all areas of his life, relying on a clear mind.
‘A happy St. Nicholas Day to you too!’ Putting the joint to his lips, he inhaled deeply. ‘I started at uni. It helped me to tune out the inessentials. I’ve smoked ever since. Particularly in stressful situations.’
He did look stressed. He seemed – if such a thing were possible – even more beleaguered than yesterday. Heavy bags under his eyes, unkempt hair, pale features.
He blew the smoke into the morning air and watched it dissipate. ‘Sometimes it also helps me think further than I otherwise could.’ He turned his gaze towards her. ‘But what are you doing here?’
‘The hotel put me on your trail.’ She sat down next to him on the rotted wooden bench, staring for a moment into the soot-blackened firepit. ‘There’s something you’ve got to see.’
Unfortunately, it wasn’t something likely to lower his stress levels. She reached for her smartphone.
‘You want to try?’ He offered her the joint.
‘I’m driving.’
He shrugged and took another puff.
She opened her email. ‘Take a look at this here.’
The subject read ‘Date for meeting’, and the sender was Nora Schneill.
The message consisted of just two lines:
I’ve got to speak to you.
It’s about Daniel Köllner.
He flicked the joint away and grabbed the smartphone out of her hand. Skimming the lines again, Jan’s eyes and mouth opened wide.
‘Schneill,’ he groaned. ‘And Köllner. You’re thinking what I’m thinking, right? Otherwise you wouldn’t have come straight out here.’
‘Yeah. I didn’t want to believe it first either. Köllner was the leak.’
‘Hang on, hold your horses!’ He gave her back the phone and stood up. Pacing up and down the side-line, he thought out loud. ‘What reason would he have had? Stüter kept a beady eye on him twenty-four-seven, for Christ’s sake. When would he have had the chance?’
‘Maybe he couldn’t resist Schneill. But she’ll probably tell us herself. Should we invite her down to HQ?’
Jan scratched his chin. ‘We’d better speak to her at once. Ask her if she can be in Hachenburg in an hour. But not the station.’
‘Men and their womanising,’ sighed Rabea, typing the message into her phone.
He looked at her. ‘Are you judging me? For the thing with Tamara?’
‘Why should I? It’s your life, and it’s certainly your love life. How could you have known she’d be abducted?’
Jan kicked away some snow. ‘Maybe he only took her because she got involved with me. The “Z” was a statement. A threat. As crude as it sounds, maybe the killer didn’t want to let me have her.’
‘He’s got it in for you – why?’ She rose too, tucking her hands into her jacket pockets and coming to stand beside him.
‘It’s not unusual for a killer to fixate on one of the investigators. To want to play, communicate,’ said Jan. ‘Sometimes they find it interesting that I want to get into their psyches. Maybe it goaded him.’
‘Do you think Tamara is still alive?’
He inhaled sharply, as though he’d cut himself. ‘Depends what letter he’s got planned for her.’
‘So many people have died. And we’re groping around in the dark. We’ve still got no suspects, not even a lead. All that’s happened is we’ve lost a colleague – we’ve got to stop him.’
‘And we will. If he keeps going in this frenzied state, sooner or later he’ll make a mistake.’ Jan stretched his back and cracked his knuckles. ‘Let’s go back to HQ. How’s Stüter doing, by the way?’
‘We won’t be seeing him again any time soon,’ said Rabea as they trudged across the pitch together. ‘Nervous breakdown. He’s receiving psychological treatment, then he’ll probably be sent home for a while.’
Jan wiped his face. As many times as he’d quarrelled with the Chief Superintendent, he had been a capable man. It was a loss for the team.
‘If things keep on like this, he won’t be the only one to go nuts,’ said Jan.
40
When Rabea and Jan reached operational command, they found everybody standing in silence, heads bowed and hands folded.
For a perplexed moment Jan thought the gesture had to do with them, until he remembered again the images from last night.
‘I’d like to have a minute’s silence so that we can commemorate our colleague Daniel Köllner,’ began Anita, effortlessly managing to give her voice the necessary gravitas. ‘He gave his life in the attempt to save a woman from being kidnapped. This act of bravery revealed him to be a better policeman than I or anybody else in this room will ever be.’
The weed was still affecting Jan’s mind, although it was a weak strain mixed with dried raspberry leaves instead of tobacco. He still had to function, after all. Everything lay beneath a matte veil. The other investigators’ empty faces seemed even more hollow, the atmosphere in the tube-like room even more oppressive.
Anita continued. ‘Daniel was an important part of this investigation team, and he will be sorely missed as a detective. Far more important, however, is that he will be missed as a son, as a partner, as a father, as a family member. And, not least, as a friend.’
The silence in the room sent a shiver down Jan’s spine. He closed his eyes.
Could he
have prevented this? Saved Köllner’s life?
Ever since his brother’s death, he knew he shouldn’t ask himself questions like that. Yet his brain had never bothered much with what he should or shouldn’t do – perhaps that was why he’d become a behavioural investigative advisor.
‘Thank you,’ whispered Anita eventually. ‘Now let’s get back to work so we can bring this bastard to justice.’
The operations command sprang into familiar activity. Tapping keyboards, telephone conversations, discussions. Anita threw two aspirins into her glass of water and walked up to them. Last night had affected even her composure.
Hopefully she couldn’t smell the cannabis on his clothes.
‘It’s simply a tragedy.’ She gave them a pained smile. ‘You’ve probably been smoking pot, if I know you. Old habits die hard, eh?’
Jan jumped. It wasn’t her nose that had found him out, it was her shrewd instincts.
His eyes fell on the tablets fizzing in her water. ‘We’ve all got our narcotics.’
It was impossible to tell from Anita’s expression whether the comment had hit home – something that had always disturbed him about her. A person ought to show they’re capable of emotion.
‘We’ve got to talk about the information that filtered through to the press,’ said Rabea. ‘We believe Köllner was the source.’
Anita nearly dropped her glass, but reflexively caught it with her other hand. Water sloshed onto the floor. She opened her mouth to speak.
Yet before she could say a word, she was interrupted by a scream. An investigator hurled away the thick envelope she’d just opened and buried her face in her hands. As it landed on the carpet, something fell out.
It took Jan a few moments to realise what it was.
Then came the surge of nausea.
41
‘L’.
Two deep black lines.
Connected to form a consonant.
Rabea couldn’t take her eyes off the tattoo. It was unmissable on the blanched, blood-encrusted scrap of skin that fell out of the envelope. It was roughly the size of a postcard. The killer had sent them a gruesome greeting.
With a choking cough, Jan collapsed. Many others averted their eyes in horror.
Ichigawa was one of the few to maintain her composure. After taking a deep breath, she beckoned Rabea over. ‘Frau Wyler, you have some basic knowledge of forensic medicine, correct?’
She nodded.
‘Tell me everything this – body part – says to you.’
Putting on a pair of latex gloves, Rabea knelt down before the envelope, trying to breathe through her mouth.
Ichigawa turned to the appalled detective who had opened it. ‘The envelope came through the regular post?’
The woman’s lips were still trembling. She’d wrapped her arms around her chest. ‘It was in the post box, but it wasn’t stamped, and there was nothing written on it.’
‘Is the box under any kind of surveillance?’
A shake of the head.
‘Rookie mistake.’ Anita sighed. ‘He must have brought it in the middle of the night. In a case like this we should have assumed he’d try to communicate with us sooner or later.’
She paced up and down, her brow furrowed. ‘Frau Wyler, what do you think? I’ll be happy with any tiny piece of information you can give me.’
‘A piece of skin and flesh roughly one and a half centimetres thick, excised with a very sharp implement. Possibly a scalpel. Possibly another hunting tool.’
‘Which area of the body is it from?’ asked Jan haltingly, still half-turned away from the envelope.
‘From a woman’s thigh, judging by the texture of the skin. But I can’t say for sure.’
‘Could someone survive that?’
‘She would have bled profusely.’ Rabea inhaled sharply. ‘But if the wound was treated properly, her chances of survival aren’t bad. We’ll have to compare the skin with DNA samples from Frau Weiss’s hotel room,’ she continued, ‘but it’s likely this came from her.’
‘Thank you. That was very informative. He tattooed an “L” on her, and luckily, we’re still quite far away from that letter. He’s following strict alphabetical order with these murders. Tamara Weiss isn’t up next, but he’s taken her already as a precaution, like he did with Zanetti and Ekiz.’
‘What do we do now?’ asked one of the officers.
‘Get some of your people to start researching everybody in the region who works explicitly with language. Journalists, writers, editors, calligraphers, teachers, linguists—’
‘There’ll be thousands,’ said Rabea. ‘What are we going to do with all those names?’
‘We’ll call them. One after another. Warn them, ask them if they’ve received any threats lately or noticed anything out of the ordinary. We know our killer’s preferred victims. Let’s use that knowledge.’
The team dispersed. Jan, upturning his chair, dashed retching out of the room, his hand clasped to his mouth. Only Rabea and Ichigawa remained, as well as another officer, who was putting the flap of skin into a sterile box.
‘Nora Schneill will be here any moment. We’re meeting her at the castle. Do you want to be present when we question her?’ asked Rabea. ‘I hope Jan isn’t too – indisposed.’
‘I don’t like having my plans messed up by external factors like this. The most important thing is that we speak to a tattoo artist as soon as possible. Find out something about our killer’s skill level.’
Rabea thought about what Jan had said about Ichigawa. ‘Do you want me and Jan to be there?’
‘Definitely. But we’ll talk to this journalist first.’ Lips pursed, Ichigawa nodded towards the toilets. ‘Could you please go and fetch him?’
42
Jan rinsed his mouth out with water one more time. The taste of vomit still stuck to his tongue, but it wasn’t as intense any more.
Supporting himself on the sink, he lowered his head and closed his eyes. Again, the image of the skin peeking out of the envelope. The same skin he’d been kissing only a few hours earlier. He didn’t want to imagine her heart-rending screams of pain when the killer cut it out of her body.
He tore himself away from the basin and stared at his reflection, a pale thing with bloodshot eyes.
‘Jan, where are you?’ Rabea knocked on the door for the third time. ‘Schneill’s already there.’
‘Just a second!’ He wiped his face with a paper towel then went into the corridor.
Rabea eyed him with an expression he’d never seen on her before: searching, wary, almost distraught.
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
She blinked, caught. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Doesn’t matter. Where’s Anita?’
‘Waiting outside. She wants to find some tattoo artist afterwards. We’re supposed to be there.’
‘What’s that going to achieve? I can already tell you our killer’s an amateur when it comes to tattooing.’
‘I think she just wants to make sure.’ Rabea looked at him. ‘She seems very conscientious.’
‘You know what else is conscientious? Machines.’ He imitated the mechanical gait of a robot.
‘You’re only messing around to show me you’re okay.’
He ground his teeth and started walking normally again.
They stepped outside, and Jan drew deep breaths of clear wintery air into his lungs. The hideous message had sobered him up instantly.
‘Feeling better?’ asked Anita, who was waiting for them in the car park. Her voice was a monotone.
‘Don’t ask unless you’re actually interested.’
Her face betrayed one of her rare flashes of emotion. This time it was an expression of exasperation. ‘I mean it seriously, okay? If you think none of this is affecting me, then maybe you’re not the brilliant judge of character you think.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured, shocked.
The fifteen-minute walk to Hachenburg Castle passed in silence.
The building, stocky and powerful, loomed above the small town.
As Nora Schneill trudged across the inner courtyard, she seemed to Jan more vulnerable than before. Small, lost in the depths of her Burberry coat. Her eyes bloodshot, her hair uncombed and greasy. Köllner’s death had stripped back her immaculate veneer. She walked hunched and shuffling, as though to her own execution.
‘Why didn’t you want me to come to the station?’ was her only greeting.
‘I’m glad you could come,’ said Ichigawa, falling into polite clichés. ‘It was Jan Grall’s idea. We wanted to avoid any unnecessary questions from our colleagues. Also, for the moment we can’t rule out the possibility that the killer is keeping us under surveillance.’
Schneill nodded carefully. ‘I understand.’
‘Okay, so why are we here?’ asked Jan, his hands planted on his hips. His voice shook, and he wasn’t sure whether it was the shock of Tamara’s abduction or simple rage. Schneill had endangered their investigation – and thus the victims.
‘I want to help you stop the murders,’ explained the journalist. A smile flitted across her oval, fine-lined face. ‘What I did with Daniel – with Herr Köllner – hindered your investigation. I’m deeply sorry for that. I realise I might even have helped the killer.’
Ichigawa crossed her arms. ‘Did you have a relationship with him?’
‘No, absolutely not!’ she cried. ‘I had something on him.’
‘You know we could arrest you for blackmail and obstructing a police investigation?’ Ichigawa exhaled a cloud of vapour at the dramatically perfect moment. ‘So, it would be best if you had something concrete to offer us.’
Schneill turned away with a sigh, taking a few steps across the courtyard. She was looking towards the valley. On a clear day like this, you could see across to the Sieben Mountains. ‘I’ll publish anything you want,’ she said eventually. ‘False information, news about the killer, whatever. The other media outlets trust me. If I write something, everybody else will jump on the bandwagon.’ She turned to face them. ‘Do you understand the incredible power I’m offering you here?’
‘This doesn’t mean you’re getting any special treatment,’ said Ichigawa.
