Blood Eagle

by Craig Russell

  Someone increased the current across Fabel’s skin. ‘When was the last time he was in?’

  Otto laughed. ‘Am I being interrogated by the police?’

  ‘Please Otto, it could be important.’

  Otto recognised the seriousness on his friend’s face. ‘About a month ago, I think. He may have been in since, but I haven’t served him.’

  ‘What did he buy?’

  Otto’s acre of forehead creased in concentration. Fabel knew that, for all Otto’s outward disorder, his mind was a supercomputer of book titles, authors and publishers. The frown evaporated, the data-processing was complete.

  ‘I’ll show you. We have another copy in stock.’

  Fabel followed Otto across to the New Age and Occult section of the store. Otto slipped a thick volume from the shelf and handed it to Fabel. It was titled Runecast: Rites and Rituals of the Viking. It was clearly no academic tome, but intended for a more general audience. Fabel opened the book at the back and scanned down the index. There was an entry for Blood Eagle. A glance through the text showed a page and a half was devoted to the ritual.

  ‘Otto, I need a name for this customer. Or at least a description.’

  ‘That’s easy. I don’t think I have an address or anything: he’s never actually ordered a title. I can look back and see if I can get a credit-card slip or something. But, like I say, remembering the name is easy. He spoke perfect German with only the slightest hint of an accent, but he had a British or American name: John MacSwain.’

  Friday 13 June, 3.45 p.m. Rotherbaum, Hamburg.

  He had, at least, had the courtesy to inform Kolski at LKA7 Abteilung Organisierte Kriminalität of his intention. Fabel could tell that Kolski was not happy about it, but information had not exactly been flowing from the Organised Crime Division and as a result he felt entitled to pursue his inquiry across boundaries.

  Fabel was aware that he was looking at three million euros’ worth of property. Mehmet Yilmaz’s three-storey Rotherbaum house was, ironically, only ten minutes’ walk from Fabel’s flat. Its Jugendstil Art Nouveau façade presented a convinced elegance to the tree-lined street. It was one of a row of five houses, each equally vast in scale, each equally solid in presence, each totally different in style: Bauhaus sat next to Art Deco next to Neo-Gothic.

  Fabel had expected the door to be answered by a broom-moustached Turkish heavy. It wasn’t: an attractive young housekeeper with short but lustrous golden blonde hair politely asked who was calling and for whom, and guided Fabel through a hallway of polished stone to a large round reception room. This was the centre of the house; the room was the full height of the house and capped with a cupola whose central, circular, stained-glass skylight dappled the floor with splashes of colour. From some far corner of the house Fabel could hear halting piano-playing and the sound of children laughing.

  There were a couple of piles of leather-bound books on the vast circular walnut table that sat in the centre of the reception room. Fabel had just picked one up, a second edition of Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther, when a tall, slim and clean shaven man of about fifty entered. His hair was mid-brown and greying at the temples.

  ‘We spoke on the phone, Herr Kriminalhauptkommissar. You wanted to speak to me?’ asked Mehmet Yilmaz, without a hint of a Turkish accent.

  Fabel became aware that he was still holding the Goethe in his hand. ‘Oh, I’m sorry …’ He put the book down. ‘Wonderful condition. Do you collect?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I do,’ answered Yilmaz. ‘German romantics, Sturm und Drang, that kind of thing. Whenever I can – whenever I can afford – I like to pick up first editions.’

  Fabel suppressed a smile: in these surroundings it was difficult to imagine Yilmaz struggling to pay for anything. The Turk walked over to the table and picked up another, smaller volume in a rich burgundy binding.

  ‘Theodor Storm, Der Schimmelreiter – a first edition and my latest acquisition.’ He handed the book to Fabel. The burgundy leather was soft and yielding. Almost warm. It was as if its age were palpable: as if Fabel’s fingertips were brushing against all the other fingertips that had handled the book over the past century.

  ‘Beautiful,’ said Fabel sincerely. He handed the volume back. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you at home, Herr Yilmaz, and thank you for seeing me at such short notice. I just felt that it was a little less formal … I would like to ask you some questions about a case I’m working on.’

  ‘Yes, you said on the phone. Are you sure this shouldn’t be done more formally? Specifically, with my lawyer present?’

  ‘That, of course, is up to you, Herr Yilmaz. But I want to make it clear that I am speaking to you not as a suspect but simply as someone who can perhaps provide some helpful information. By the way, Herr Yilmaz, before we go any further, my condolences on the death of your cousin.’

  Yilmaz moved over towards a coffee table and two leather armchairs by the wall. ‘Please, Herr Fabel, sit down.’ The blonde housekeeper came in with a cafetière. She poured two cups and left.

  ‘Thank you, Herr Fabel. It’s not often that a Hamburg policeman addresses me so … politely. It is sad, but Ersin was always so … impetuous, shall we say. Anyway, ask your questions and I’ll do what I can to help. What is this case? You said on the phone you wanted to talk to me about Hans Klugmann? I’ve already spoken to your colleagues Herr Buchholz and Herr Kolski about him. I’ve told them, I have no idea where he is.’

  Fabel understood Kolski’s annoyance about this visit to Yilmaz: what were LKA7 doing looking for Klugmann?

  ‘Yes. But that’s not the case I’m investigating. I’m looking into the murder of a young prostitute who rented an apartment from Klugmann. We know her only as “Monique”.’

  Yilmaz sipped his coffee without taking his eyes off Fabel. There was no reaction to the name. Not a flicker in the eye. Nothing.

  ‘Was Monique working for you?’ Fabel asked. ‘Even indirectly, through Klugmann?’

  ‘No, Herr Fabel, she was not.’

  ‘Listen, Herr Yilmaz, I have no interest in your business or other activities. All I am trying to do is to catch a serial killer before he strikes again. What you tell me here is off the record.’

  ‘I appreciate that, Herr Fabel, and I reiterate: this girl was not working for me directly or indirectly. Whatever I may be involved in, I do not run cheap back-street prostitutes …’

  ‘Could Klugmann have been running her as a private venture?’

  ‘Possibly. I really wouldn’t know. Klugmann is not one of my people, even if your colleagues from LKA7 Organised Crime insist that he is.’

  ‘You have to admit that someone with his … employment history would be very useful to your organisation.’

  ‘Herr Hauptkommissar, we have been frank with each other thus far. In the same spirit of candour I’ll tell you this much – and as you say, off the record. Klugmann is someone on the fringes. You’re right, his particular background makes him very useful, but he has never been fully trusted by anyone on our side of the fence. There’s always a lingering doubt about ex-policemen.’ Yilmaz took a sip from his coffee cup. ‘My cousin Ersin used Klugmann as a freelance resource, but that’s as far as it went.’

  ‘So how does he make a living?’

  ‘My organisation is not the only game in town, Herr Fabel. Besides, he worked regularly as an assistant manager at one of our clubs, the Paradies-Tanzbar. All quite legitimate.’ Yilmaz gave a half smile and took another sip of coffee. ‘Well, almost.’

  ‘We believe there was a video camera hidden in the girl’s apartment. It’s missing along with any tapes. You’ve said you’re not into back-street hookers. Well, I wouldn’t place this girl in that category. She was high-end. What about blackmail? Is that a business you’re into?’

  Yilmaz’s posture in the leather chair tautened.

  ‘This is getting a little tiresome, Herr Fabel. I already told you that I didn’t know about the existence of this girl, far less any scheme
s she and Klugmann may have been involved in.’ He paused, sat back and let the tension ease from his pose. ‘Look, let me explain something to you. I have lived in this country for more than half of my life. When I arrived here I found out very quickly that only certain doors were open to Gastarbeiter Turks. The door that was open to me was that of Ersin, my cousin. I worked for twenty years within or attached to his organisation. For the last ten of those years I have steadily legitimised those elements under my control. Now that Ersin is dead, the entire operation is in my control and I am legitimising that.’

  ‘But let’s be honest, you’re still responsible for a huge slice of Hamburg’s drug business …’

  ‘I hope you’re not looking for confessions.’ Yilmaz smiled coldly. ‘I know that Buchholz sees me as a Turkish Al Capone – and I admit freely that I have broken and continue to break the law – but I am a criminal more by accident than by design. Believe it or not I am a very moral man, but to me the law can be a very different thing from right and justice. Sometimes I think that what most irritates Hauptkommissar Buchholz is that I, a Turk and a crook in his eyes, may do at a stroke what he’s been trying to achieve for years: wipe out the Ulugbay criminal organisation. I admit that Ersin would have been up for a bit of blackmail, particularly if it could lever influence as well as money out of the victim. But not me.’

  Yilmaz stood up suddenly and walked across to the ornate marble fireplace. He lifted a silver-framed photograph and brought it over to Fabel. It was a picture of a smiling boy, about fourteen. Already the childlike softness was evaporating from the face to expose the same strong jawline as Yilmaz’s.

  ‘Your son?’

  ‘Yes. Johann. A German name for a German future. He speaks only a little Turkish and even that with a thick German accent. His identity has to lie in this country, Herr Fabel. I’m making sure that when he takes over the family business it will be a clean business. A legal business. A German business.’

  Fabel handed back the photograph. ‘I believe you, Herr Yilmaz. But in the meantime you continue to sell drugs to kids and fight street wars with the Ukrainians.’

  Yilmaz’s face hardened. ‘There is no war with the Ukrainians. All that is over.’

  ‘I would have thought they would be the prime suspects in your cousin’s killing?’

  Something like a smile broke across Yilmaz’s face, but his dark eyes remained fixed on Fabel. ‘Herr Fabel, shall I tell you what I think of you?’

  Fabel was taken aback slightly, but shrugged. ‘Okay. Go ahead.’

  ‘You are a policeman; I believe, an honest and straightforward policeman. You are obviously an intelligent man, but your view of your function is simplistic. In fact, you wouldn’t call it a function, you’d call it a duty. You see it as your job to protect the innocent and to catch those who would do them harm. People like me. Or psychopaths or other damaged people who transcend simple good or bad. And, for you, the law is everything. It is your shield, the shield with which you protect others.’

  ‘And somehow this is misguided?’

  ‘Simplistic, is how I described it. It is a moral colour-blindness. For you, the forces of law are the forces of good, while people like me are evil. Some of your colleagues, however, are more aware of the shades between. Sometimes they are the shades between.’

  ‘Are you saying police officers had something to do with Ulugbay’s death?’

  ‘Herr Fabel, what I’m saying is that there is a lot going on out there that someone like you cannot begin to understand. And, with the greatest respect, I think you should stay out of it.’ Yilmaz rose to his feet. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you with your inquiry.’

  Fabel placed his coffee cup on the antique side table. ‘Herr Yilmaz, there is a monster out there. He is, literally, tearing the lungs from women’s bodies. I need all the help I can get to stop him. If there is anything you can tell me …’

  ‘Lying to the police is a skill that I have had to hone over the years. But in this instance, I assure you I am telling you the truth. I really have no knowledge of this girl or of Klugmann’s arrangement with her.’ Yilmaz paused, as if weighing something up. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll have some of my own people look into it. They perhaps have access to sources that would not talk to the police. And, of course, we can be more … well, direct in our approach. I promise you that if we find out anything I will let you know.’

  Yilmaz showed Fabel to the door himself. As he was leaving, Fabel turned to Yilmaz.

  ‘What I don’t understand is, if you are so keen to legitimise your business, why don’t you just cease all illegal activities now, instead of phasing them out?’

  Yilmaz laughed. ‘Ask any business consultant: diversification has to be funded and supported by a strong core business base. Once the turnover of my diversified operations – particularly the building and property side – has equalled that of the core business, I will have the security I need to legitimise the business totally.’

  He stepped out through the front door with Fabel, turned and looked up at his house.

  ‘Do you like my home, Herr Fabel?’

  ‘Yes. It’s very impressive.’

  ‘It was built in the 1920s. The architect who designed it was responsible for a number of properties in Rotherbaum. A German architect with a reputation above all others and one of the most successful architectural practices in Germany. A rich, respected and successful man in his own right.’ Yilmaz turned to Fabel. ‘He was also a Jew. He died in Dachau Concentration Camp. As I say, Herr Fabel, I distinguish between what is legal and what is moral, and there is a limit to how firmly I grasp the concept of Germanness. While I have hopes for my son, I know that I will always be an outsider. And that is why there remains an “alternative” element to my business activities. Goodbye, Herr Fabel. And good luck in your hunt.’

  Fabel called the Mordkommission from his car. He had put Maria on tracing John MacSwain – a name as distinctive as that wouldn’t be hard to find in Hamburg and Maria would be quicker than waiting for Otto to search through his accounts. Fabel got through to Werner who told him they had an address for John MacSwain in Harvestehude, but there was no other information on him yet.

  ‘I’ve got another strange one for you, Chef,’ said Werner. ‘I’ve had a call from a Hauptkommissar Sülberg in Cuxhaven. He’d like you to call him urgently. He has a couple of cases of ritualised multiple rape. He thought they may be connected to our serial. Oh, and that journalist, Angelika Blüm, has been trying to get you again.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll be right back.’ Fabel snapped shut his cell phone and slipped it into his pocket. As he started the car, he caught sight of a pretty girl in his side mirror. She was getting into a car further down the street. She had thick, short hair of iridescent blonde and exuded a lithe youthfulness. He couldn’t quite place where he had seen her before.

  The voice on the other end of the phone was warm and rich, with a hint behind the standard German of the same Plattdeutsch tones Fabel had grown up with. They had not got far into the conversation when Fabel realised that there was an acute intellect behind the cosy provincial tones.

  ‘And you think there might be a link between these attacks and the murders I’m investigating. What do you base that on, Hauptkommissar Sülberg?’ Fabel asked.

  ‘I could be vague and say it’s a hunch. But it’s an educated hunch. I’ve got two young women in the Stadtkrankenhaus here, one being treated, the other in the morgue.’

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘No … or at least not directly. But I’m treating it as culpable homicide. Both the dead girl and the one we have in hospital had a hypno-hallucinogenic unknowingly administered.’

  ‘Date-rape drugs?’

  ‘That’s what the tests say. Both girls were bound by the wrists and ankles and abused in some kind of ritual. I read the details of your two murders in the Bundeskriminalamt’s briefing and saw parallels. This second victim was staying with her cousin in Hamburg last night. She met a guy in a
St Pauli nightclub and she thinks he doped her with a spiked mineral-water bottle. So that places the primary scene of commission in your jurisdiction.’

  Fabel smiled. This hick cop knew his business. ‘What makes you think there’s a ritualistic element to all of this?’

  ‘As you know, these drugs cause serious amnesia, but between the gaps the victim has vague recollections of being tied to some kind of altar. She says she thinks there was a statue of some kind as well.’

  ‘Thanks for the call, Herr Sülberg. I think that it’s certainly worth having a look at. I have a forensic psychiatrist working with me on this case, a Dr Eckhardt. Would you mind if I brought her along?’

  Sülberg indicated that he had no objections and they arranged a time for the next day.

  Friday 13 June, 7.30 p.m. Harvestehude, Hamburg.

  For Fabel, there were critical moments during the interrogation of suspects or questioning of witnesses: split-seconds where people’s reactions were raw and natural; when even the most rehearsed cover story did not have time to kick in. One such time being when the police turn up at the door unannounced. Official contact with the police is the exception in the lives of the average citizen, and when a police officer turns up at the door, the average citizen responds in a set number of ways. Alarm is the most common: the police visit seen as the delivery of bad news, usually the death of a relative. At the very least, a police officer on the doorstep is seen as the sign of something wrong, a crime or an accident, and the reaction tends to be a wide-eyed combination of disquiet and querulousness.

  John MacSwain had got it all wrong. When Fabel and Werner had held out their oval shields, MacSwain had smiled his most casual smile, stood to one side and invited them in.

  For the second time in a day Fabel found himself in a home that was way out of his price bracket. MacSwain’s apartment was vast and very expensively decorated and furnished. The taste was flawless. MacSwain himself was a tall, dark-haired and casually but expensively dressed man in his late twenties. He had the muscular, masculine good looks of a film actor. Fabel noticed his most striking feature was his eyes, that were a light emerald and not unlike those of the Slav he had seen that night outside the murder scene. The architecture of the face, however, was totally different.