‘Maybe you took your clothes off before you had your jollies … Maybe we should have forensics give you a going over …’
‘Do what the fuck you want … Okay, so I work for Ulugbay. That’s got nothing to do with what happened up there tonight. It’s got nothing to do with him and I’m not bringing him into it. You don’t scare me like the fucking Turks scare me. You know the score … if they think I’m talking to you about them I’ll end up in the woods with my face shaved off.’
Fabel knew the custom Klugmann was referring to, a favourite with the Turkish Mafia: someone who crossed them in a drugs deal, or who gave information to the police, would be dumped in the woods to the north of Hamburg. The hands would be missing, the teeth smashed and the face sliced off. It made identification of the victim difficult, sometimes impossible, and delayed investigations to such an extent that often the trail would be too cold to secure a conviction.
‘Okay, okay … just calm down,’ Fabel said. ‘But you’ve got to see that you’re the only person that we can place in her apartment …’
‘Sure – for thirty fuckin’ seconds. As soon as I saw her … like that … I came straight out and phoned you.’
‘You didn’t use her phone?’
‘No. I used my cell phone. I couldn’t stay in there. I had to get out.’
‘You arrived about two-thirty?’ Fabel asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘And you didn’t touch anything?’
‘No. I was straight in and out.’
‘How did you get in? You have a key?’
‘No. Well, yes, I do, but I didn’t use it. The door was unlocked and open a bit.’
‘Your call was logged by the Einsatzzentrale at two-thirty-five. Where were you before you called at the apartment?’
‘At the Paradies-Tanzbar, working.’
‘Until when, exactly?’
‘About a quarter to two.’
‘It doesn’t take three quarters of an hour to get from the Grosse Freiheit to her apartment.’
‘Had business to do …’
‘What business?’
Klugmann held his hands out palms upwards and tilted his head to one side. Fabel picked up his pen and rattled it between his teeth.
‘If you can’t or won’t tell us, that gives you the opportunity to kill the girl, get cleaned up and claim that you’ve just arrived and found the body.’
‘Okay, okay … I went down to see a guy I know in the Hafen … bought some stuff …’
‘From whom?’
‘You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding …’
Fabel spun a scene-of-crime photograph across the table. The scene had been captured in full colour, so vivid that it looked unreal.
‘This is no joke.’
Klugmann froze, his face white. Memories were obviously flooding back. ‘She was a friend. That’s all.’
Werner sighed. Klugmann ignored him and looked directly at Fabel.
‘And you know I didn’t kill her, Herr Fabel …’ The intensity faded from his eyes and his posture. ‘Anyway, I got a taxi from the club down to the Hafen. The taxi guy waited for me while I had my meet and then took me up to the apartment. He dropped me off there about two-thirty. He can tell you all my movements from leaving the club to arriving at the flat. Check with the taxi firm.’
‘We’re already checking.’
Fabel closed the file and stood up. It seemed clear that Klugmann wasn’t the killer; they had no solid grounds for detaining him, even as a material witness. But the interview had unsettled Fabel. Klugmann seemed everything he was supposed to be, but Fabel had had the feeling throughout that he had been looking at a map upside down: all the recognised landmarks were there, but they disoriented rather than guided. With both files under his arm, Fabel walked towards the door and spoke without looking back at Klugmann. ‘We’ll get forensics to examine you and your clothing anyway.’
Everything about Maria Klee was brisk and sharp, from her clipped Hanover accent to her short, styled blonde hair. When Fabel emerged from the interview room she was standing in the corridor waiting for him. She had a sheet of paper in her hand.
‘How did it go?’ she asked briskly.
Fabel was about to answer when a uniformed SchuPo arrived to escort Klugmann to forensics. Klugmann’s and Maria’s eyes met for a moment; Klugmann’s eyes seemed blank, as if Maria weren’t there, while Maria frowned, as if trying to work something out.
‘You know him?’ asked Fabel when Klugmann and his escort were out of earshot.
‘I don’t know … I thought I recognised him, but I couldn’t say where I’ve seen him before …’
‘Well, it is possible. He is ex-Polizei Hamburg.’
Maria shrugged again, this time as if she were shaking off an irritating inconsequence. ‘How did you get on with him anyway?’
‘He’s obviously not our guy, but he’s dirty. Everything is just wrong about him. There’s something he’s not telling us. In fact, there’s a lot he’s not telling us. How did you get on?’
‘I talked to the manager of the Tanzbar, Arno Hoffknecht. He confirms that Klugmann was there working until after one-thirty.’
‘Could Hoffknecht be covering for him?’
‘Well, you have to see this guy to believe him. He is as sleazy as they come. Made my flesh crawl.’ Maria mimed a shudder. ‘But no, he’s not covering for him. Too many other people saw Klugmann throughout his shift. Davidwache KriPo have also checked out Klugmann’s claim that he went everywhere in the same taxi …’
‘He just told us the same story.’
‘Anyway, the driver confirms that he picked up Klugmann at the club at one-forty-five, took him to a Kneipe in the Hafen – Klugmann told him to wait – then he dropped him at the apartment about half past two.’
‘Okay. Anything else?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid there is,’ said Maria, and handed Fabel the print-out of the e-mail she had been holding in her hand.
Wednesday 4 June, 10.00 a.m. Polizeipräsidium, Hamburg.
Fabel read it out loud again, then put the page back down on the table and walked over to the window. The briefing room was on the third floor of the Polizeipräsidium. The traffic below pulsed with the changing of the traffic lights: the reassuring rhythm of Hamburg life.
‘And the e-mail was addressed to you, personally?’ asked Van Heiden.
‘Yes, the same as the last one,’ Fabel sipped at his tea. He kept his back to the others and looked out through the rain, across Winterhuder Stadtpark to where the city centre jutted into a steel grey sky.
‘Is there no way we can trace it?’ asked Van Heiden.
‘Unfortunately not, Herr Kriminaldirektor.’ It was Maria Klee who answered. ‘Our friend seems to have a pretty sophisticated understanding of information technology. Unless we actually catch him online, there’s no way we can locate him. Even then it would be unlikely.’
‘Have we had Technical Section look at this?’
‘Yes sir,’ said Maria Klee. Fabel still didn’t turn but kept focused on the pulsing traffic below. ‘We’ve also had an independent expert look at the e-mail. There’s just no way we can track it back.’
‘It’s perfect,’ said Fabel. ‘An anonymous letter or note gives us physical evidence; we can look for DNA, carry out handwriting analysis, identify the source of the paper and the ink … but an e-mail only has an electronic presence. Forensically, it is non-existent.’
‘But I thought an anonymous e-mail was impossible,’ said Van Heiden. ‘Surely we have an IP address?’
Fabel was momentarily taken aback by Van Heiden’s knowledge of information technology. ‘That’s right. We’ve had two separate e-mails, each with a separate Internet provider and identity. We followed both up and found out that our guy has hacked into what should be an impenetrably secure network and set up fake accounts. He then sends the e-mails through these accounts.’
Fabel turned away from the window. There were six people around the ch
errywood table. The four principal members of Fabel’s Mordkommission team – Werner Meyer, Maria Klee, Anna Wolff and Paul Lindemann – sat together on one side. On the other sat an attractive dark-haired woman of about thirty-five, Dr Susanne Eckhardt, the criminal psychologist. At the head of the table was Horst Van Heiden, Leitender Kriminaldirektor of the Polizei Hamburg: Fabel’s boss. Van Heiden rose from his chair, a policeman as if it were his genetic destiny; even now, in his pale grey Hugo Boss suit, he managed to convey the impression of wearing a uniform. He took the few steps across to the briefing-room wall, upon which large, colour photographs, taken from different angles, showed the devastated bodies of two young women. Blood everywhere. White bone gleaming through gore and flesh. Two different women, two different settings, but the horror at the centre of the images remained constant: their lungs lay excavated and thrown out from their bodies. Van Heiden’s eyes ranged over the horror, his face emotionless.
‘I take it you know who I have waiting for me – for us – upstairs, Fabel?’
‘Yes, Herr Kriminaldirektor. I do.’
‘And you know he’s been giving me hell to put an end to … to this.’
‘I am well aware of the political pressures upon you, sir. But my main concern is to prevent some other poor woman falling victim to this animal.’
Van Heiden’s small blue eyes glittered coldly. ‘My priorities, Herr Kriminalhauptkommissar, are exactly where they should be.’ He looked towards the images again. ‘I have a daughter roughly the same age as the second victim.’ He turned back to Fabel. ‘But I can do without the Erste Bürgermeister of Hamburg breathing down my neck.’
‘As I said, sir, we’re all trying to nail this bastard as quickly as we can.’
‘Another thing. All of this “spreading the wings of the eagle” and “our sacred soil” … I don’t like it. It sounds political. The eagle – the German eagle?’
‘Could be,’ Fabel said, looking over to Susanne Eckhardt.
‘Could be …’ she confirmed. When she spoke her voice was tinged with a southern accent: Munich, Fabel reckoned. ‘But the eagle is a potent psychological image in any culture, an icon for power and predation. The eagle could be his metaphor: observing, circling above, unseen by his prey, then swooping silently for the kill. It’s more likely that he is motivated by some deeply sublimated and abstracted sexual drive rather than extremist political ideology. This man isn’t a fanatic: he’s a psychotic. There’s a difference … although I must admit the religiosity of the e-mail – the sense of crusade – and the ritualised method of death bother me.’
‘Are we looking for some crazed neo-Nazi or not?’ There was an aggressive edge to Van Heiden’s voice.
‘I doubt it. I doubt it very much. The victims are not from non-German ethnic backgrounds, they are not the typical targets for neo-Nazi attack. But I cannot exclude it as a possibility. I think this is more likely to be a personal crusade …’ Susanne Eckhardt wore the expression of someone trying to remember where they’d left their car keys.
‘What is it, Frau Doktor?’ asked Fabel.
Dr Eckhardt gave a small, almost apologetic laugh. ‘It’s nothing … or at least it’s nothing that would stand up to professional or even objective scrutiny …’
‘Please share it with us anyway,’ said Van Heiden.
‘Well, it’s just that this e-mail is a textbook example of a socially dysfunctional psychotic. I mean, it’s all there: sentiments of social dislocation and isolation, a perverted, crusading morality, identification with an elevated symbol of predation …’
Fabel felt an electric ruffle through the hairs on his neck. Something else that was too right.
‘I don’t understand …’ Van Heiden had clearly missed the subtext. ‘You’re saying the e-mail is clearly genuine. That it was written by our killer.’
‘No … well yes …’ Eckhardt laughed again, exposing perfect teeth that glistened like porcelain. ‘I really don’t know what I’m saying. Just that if I had sat down to write a missive from a serial killer, I would have included all of these elements.’
‘You’re saying it’s fake? Or are you saying it’s genuine?’ The edge was back in Van Heiden’s voice. ‘I’m getting confused …’
‘It’s probably genuine. Two killings, two e-mails received. If it were a hoaxer or compulsive confessor, then his timing is too good to be true. I’m just making a point. No … an observation.’ Her eyes scanned the room for support. She found it: Fabel was nodding thoughtfully.
Van Heiden blanked her. ‘This last … escapade – do we have anything more to go on, Fabel?’
‘This one bothers me particularly,’ said Fabel. ‘There are a number of anomalies. In fact, there are a number of things we simply don’t know about the victim.’
‘Like her identity …’ said Van Heiden. Fabel couldn’t tell whether or not he was being sarcastic.
‘We’re working on that.’
Van Heiden flicked through the pages of the report. ‘What about this former Mobiles Einsatz Kommando guy that was involved with her? I don’t like the idea of an ex-Polizei Hamburg officer running a prostitute. The media would love that.’
‘Unfortunately we’ve had to let him go,’ said Fabel. ‘But we’ve put a tail on him. He’ll be watched twenty-four hours a day. I am certain he’s withholding evidence, but there’s nothing we can prove.’
‘Have you seen his service record?’
‘I’ve just had it called up,’ said Fabel, sitting down and leaning against the table. He slightly exaggerated the casualness of his pose: he knew his informality rattled Van Heiden and he enjoyed irritating him. ‘I haven’t had much time to look at it yet, but it would appear that Klugmann was a star recruit who showed a great deal of promise until the drugs charge. Before he joined the Polizei Hamburg he served as a Fallschirmjäger …’
‘A paratrooper?’
‘Yes. Perfect grounding for the Mobiles Einsatz Kommando,’ Fabel gave a small laugh. ‘Practice for doing all of your thinking with a gun.’
Van Heiden bristled. ‘The MEKs perform a valuable function. And they are police officers just like us. What was Klugmann’s military record like?’
‘As far as I can see, it bordered on the exemplary …’
‘A good man turned bad …’
‘Or a highly professional thug changing sides … it all depends on how you look at it, sir.’
This time Van Heiden ignored Fabel’s bait. ‘You think he’s holding back on us?’
‘I can’t for one minute believe that he doesn’t know the victim’s full name. But his alibi is tight. We need to confirm the exact time of death, but it’s almost definite that Klugmann is out of the frame.’
‘So why keep him under surveillance? Perhaps our resources could be better employed elsewhere?’
Fabel could sense the exchange of incredulous looks between his team members. ‘Because, sir, we have a body without a name found in the most bizarre circumstances and Klugmann, I feel, is our best lead towards establishing her identity. Like I said, I believe he is hiding something. For all we know that something could be the identity of the killer … it could be that “Son of Sven” was one of the girl’s clients.’
Fabel caught Dr Eckhardt’s glance but ignored it: she knew that he was throwing up a smokescreen. It was obviously a ploy to get Van Heiden off his back. It worked.
‘Okay,’ Van Heiden said. ‘But I’m more interested in the identity of our killer than of the victim. What else have we got underway?’
‘We’re still looking into the background of the other victim.’ Maria Klee pulled some notes from a file. ‘As far as we can see, there’s no connection between them. A prostitute and a high-flying civic lawyer. It looks like he’s picking them at random.’
‘It may seem random to us,’ said Dr Eckhardt, ‘but to the killer there is a connection between them that we cannot yet see. Remember that we are dealing with a profoundly disturbed individual here: his logic is not the same as
ours. It could be a similarity in height, the way they walk, the shape of their nose … however abstract, there is commonality that the killer sees … in fact perhaps only the killer will ever see.’
There was a pause before Werner chipped in. ‘So that means?’
‘That means every woman in Hamburg, whatever her age or background, is a potential target.’
Van Heiden scratched the grey bristle on his scalp. ‘And so far we only have one potential link with the killer – this man Klugmann, who may or may not know him as a client of this latest victim?’
‘There is another potential link.’ Dr Eckhardt didn’t look up from the table. Her arms lay framing her files. Everyone turned their attention to her. ‘And that link is Kriminalhauptkommissar Fabel. Just as the killer has some abstract criterion in selecting his victims, he has chosen Herr Fabel as his … well, as his alter ego, his opponent in the game, as it were. In his eyes, Herr Fabel is a worthy opponent. He has chosen him as his nemesis. In fact Hauptkommissar Fabel has become an essential element in his fantasy, in his plan. He has made it clear that he intends to engineer the conclusion to this hunt –’ she turned to Fabel – ‘perhaps even by having you kill him. This declaration – you can stop me but you will never catch me – is a promise of something.’
‘That I will have to kill him to stop him?’
‘Perhaps. He clearly feels that the psychotic part of his personality is safe from you. He perhaps has a fantasy of immortality that you cannot reach, even by killing him. It’s as if there is some kind of buffer between you.’
‘I am a policeman, not an executioner.’ Fabel paused, frowning. ‘But why has he chosen me?’
‘That I don’t know. Again perhaps only “Son of Sven” will ever know the reason he has picked you … but …’
‘But what?’ asked Van Heiden.
Dr Eckhardt continued to address Fabel directly. ‘Well, he feels connected to you. There is a chance that your paths have crossed in the past. Or maybe he is someone you know right now.’
‘But that is by no means definite …’ Fabel made the statement more like a question.
Blood Eagle Page 4
