by Craig Russel
‘In what way personal?’ Griebel again sought to remember if and where they had met before, or of whom it was that the young man reminded him.
‘As I explained to you when we met in the graveyard, I am looking for answers for some of the mysteries in my own life. All my life I have been haunted by memories that are not mine… by a life that is not mine. And that is why you, your research, interests me so much.’
‘With the greatest respect.’ Griebel’s voice was edged with irritation. ‘I’ve heard all this kind of thing before. I’m not a philosopher. I’m not a psychologist and I’m certainly not some kind of quasi-New Age guru. I am a scientist investigating scientific realities. I didn’t agree to meet you to explore the enigmas of your existence. I only agreed to meet you because of what you said about… well, about the past… the names you mentioned. Where did you get those names? What made you think the people you mentioned have anything to do with me?’
The young man smiled a broad, cold, joyless smile. ‘It seems so very long ago, doesn’t it, Gunter? A lifetime ago. You, me and the others? You’ve tried to move on… make a new life. If you can call the bourgeois banality you’ve been hiding behind a life. And all the time trying to pretend that the past didn’t happen.’
Griebel’s brow creased into a frown. He concentrated hard. Even the voice was familiar: tones he had heard – somewhere, sometime – before. ‘Who are you?’ he asked at last. ‘What do you want?’
‘It’s been so very long, Gunter. You all felt safe in your new lives, didn’t you? You all thought that you had put everything behind you. Put me behind you. But you all built your new lives on treachery.’ The younger man indicated Griebel’s study, the equipment, the books, with a dismissive sweep of his hand. ‘You have devoted so much time, so much of your life, to your studies. Your search for answers. You told me that you are a scientist looking for scientific realities; but I know you, Gunter. You are desperately seeking the same truths as I am. You want to see into the past, into what makes us what we are. And for all of your work, you are no further forward. But I am, Gunter. I have seen the answers you seek. I am the answer you seek.’
‘Who the hell are you?’ Griebel asked again.
‘But Gunter… you know already who I am…’ The younger man’s bright, frigid smile stayed fixed in place. ‘Don’t tell me you can’t see?’ He stood up, and removed a large velvet roll-pouch from the briefcase that he had set on the floor beside him.
8.50 p.m.: Poseldorf, Hamburg
Fabel felt bone weary. What he had anticipated as an easy first day back had unexpectedly taken a massive, dense form and had lain immovable and unavoidable in his path. He felt as if negotiating round it had sucked all the light from his day and all the energy from his body.
Susanne had arranged to meet a girlfriend in town for dinner and Fabel found himself at a loose end on his first evening back from his vacation. Before leaving the Presidium he phoned his daughter, Gabi, who lived with her mother, to see if she was free to meet up for something to eat, but she had already made plans. Gabi asked how his vacation had been and they chatted for a while before arranging to meet up later in the week. Chatting to his daughter usually brightened Fabel’s mood – she had something of the careless cheerfulness that typified Fabel’s brother Lex – but tonight her unavailability only served to unsettle him further.
Fabel did not feel like cooking for himself. He felt the need to be surrounded by people, so he decided to go back to his apartment to freshen up before going out to eat.
Fabel had lived in the same place for the past seven years. It was a block back from Milchstrasse, in what had become arguably Hamburg’s hippest locations: Poseldorf, in the Rotherbaum district of the city. Fabel’s apartment was an attic conversion in a large turn-of-the-century building. The former grand villa had been ambitiously converted into three separate stylish apartments. Unfortunately, Germany’s economic performance at the time had not been able to match the ambition of the developers and property prices in Hamburg had plummeted. Fabel had seen the opportunity to own rather than rent and had bought the attic studio. He had often thought of the irony of the situation: that he had ended up in this cool, perfectly located apartment because his marriage and the German economy had hit the skids at almost exactly the same time.
Even with the drop in property prices, all Fabel had been able to afford to buy in Poseldorf had been this studio flat. It was small, but Fabel had always felt that the sacrifice of space for location had been worth it. When the developers had converted the building, they had recognised the potential of its view and had installed huge picture windows, almost floor-to-ceiling, along the side of the building that looked over Magdalenen Strasse and the green Alsterpark out onto the park-fringed Aussenalster lake. From his windows, Fabel could watch the red and white ferries crossing the Alster and, on a clear day, he could see all the way across to the stately white villas and the glittering turquoise dome of the Iranian mosque of the Schone Aussicht on the far shore of the Alster.
It had been the perfect place for him. His unshared space. But now, as his relationship with Susanne developed, all that was changing. A new phase in his life was beginning; maybe even a new life. He had asked Susanne to move in with him and it was clear that Fabel’s Poseldorf apartment would be too cramped for two of them. Susanne’s apartment was large enough, but it was rented and Fabel, having made the tricky leap into German home ownership, did not want to go back to renting. They had decided, therefore, to pool their resources and buy anapartment. The economy was pulling out of its eight-year-long dip and Fabel’s current flat would attract a good price, or it could be rented out, and their combined incomes would mean that they would be able to afford somewhere half-decent and not too far away from the city centre.
It all sounded good and sensible, and it had been Fabel himself who had suggested moving in together. But every time he contemplated the move from Poseldorf and his small, independent space with its great views, his heart sank a little. To start with, Susanne had been the reluctant one. Fabel knew she had had a bad relationship before, with a domineering partner. This guy had done a real number on her self-esteem and the relationship had been a disaster for Susanne. The result had been that she was very protective of her independence. That was about all Fabel knew: Susanne was a normally open and frank person but that was all she had been prepared to tell him about it. That part of her past lay sealed and locked from Fabel and anyone else. Nevertheless, she had gradually warmed to the idea of them moving in together and was now, if anything, the driving force behind finding a new place to share.
Fabel parked in the dedicated space for his apartment building and let himself into his flat. He took a quick shower and changed into a black shirt and trousers and a lightweight English jacket before heading out again and walking down to the Milchstrasse.
Poseldorf had started off as the Armeleutegegend – Hamburg’s poor people’s quarter – and it still had the slightly dissonant feel of a village in the heart of a great city. Since the 1960s, however, Poseldorf had become increasingly trendy and, consequently, the financial status of its residents had swung from one extreme to the other. Poseldorf’s image of impeccably chic affluence had been underlined by the success of names like the designer Jill Sander, whose fashion empire had started out as a Poseldorf studio and boutique. The Milchstrasse was at the heart of Poseldorf: a narrow street crowded with wine bars, jazz clubs, boutiques and restaurants.
It took Fabel less than five minutes to walk from his apartment to his favourite cafe-bar. It was already busy when he arrived and he had to squeeze through the throng of customers that had gathered in the bottleneck at the bar. He made his way to the elevated seating area at the rear and sat at a free table in the corner, with the exposed brick of the wall at his back. As he sat down he suddenly felt tired. And old. His first day back at work had taken a great deal out of him and he was finding it harder to get back into the swing of things.
Trying to summon a
n appetite, he sought to push the image of the scalped head of Hans-Joachim Hauser from his mind. But he found that another strangely took its place: the mortuary photograph of a young, pretty girl with high Slavic cheekbones who had been robbed of her name and her dignity by people traffickers and robbed of her life by a fat, balding nobody. Fabel had agreed with Maria more than he could admit: he would have loved to allow her to follow up the Olga X case, to track down the organised criminals who had dragged the girl down into a life of prostitution by offering the pretence of a new life. But that was not their job.
Fabel’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival at his table of a waiter. He had served Fabel before on several previous occasions and chatted with him unhurriedly before taking his order. It was a small ritual that marked Fabel as a regular; but it also underlined for Fabel himself a sense of place, a sense of belonging. Fabel knew he was a creature of habit: a predictable man who liked routines with which to measure and maintain the order of his universe. As he sat in the cafe that he invariably chose to dine in, he found that he became annoyed with himself: with the fact that the intuitive gambles he was prepared to take in his work did not seem to extend into how he managed his private life. But that was exactly how his private life was: managed. For a moment he thought about making an excuse and leaving; going a few paces down Milchstrasse to dine somewhere different. But he didn’t; instead he ordered a Jever beer and a herring salad. His usual.
The waiter had just brought over his beer when Fabel became aware of someone standing beside him. He looked up to see a tall woman in her mid-twenties, with long dark brown hair and large hazel eyes. She was dressed in a smart skirt and top which were plain and tasteful, but which could not conceal the deadly curves of her figure. She smiled, and her teeth shone in the full, lipsticked mouth.
‘Hello, Herr Fabel… I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
Fabel half-rose. For a second he recognised the face but could not quite put a name to it. Then he remembered.
‘Sonja… Sonja Brun… How are you? Please…’ He indicated the seat opposite. ‘Please sit down…’
‘No… no, thank you.’ She gestured vaguely with her hand towards a group of women sitting at another table, nearer the window. ‘I’m here with friends from work. It was just that I saw you here and wanted to say hello.’
‘Please, do sit down for a moment. I haven’t seen you in over a year. How are you?’ he asked again.
‘I’m fine. I’m more than fine. The job is working out really well. I’ve been promoted. That was the other thing…’ Sonja paused. ‘I really wanted to thank you again for all that you did for me.’
Fabel smiled. ‘There’s no need. You already did that. Many times. I’m just glad things are working out for you.’
Sonja’s expression became serious. ‘It was much more than things working out for me, Herr Fabel. I have a new life now. A good life. No one knows about… well, about the past. I owe that to you.’
‘No, Sonja. You owe that to yourself. You’ve worked very hard to achieve everything that you have.’
There was an awkward pause and then they chatted briefly and pointlessly for a while about Sonja’s work.
‘I must get back to my friends. It’s Birgit’s birthday and we’re out celebrating. It was really nice to see you again.’ Sonja smiled and extended her hand.
‘It was good to see you again, Sonja. And I really am pleased that things are working out for you.’ They shook hands but Sonja lingered for a moment. She held her smile but looked uncertain about what she was going to do next. Then she took a small notebook from her purse and scribbled on it before tearing the sheet out and handing it to Fabel.
‘Here’s my number. Just in case you’re ever in the area…’
Fabel looked down at the piece of paper. ‘Sonja… I…’
‘It’s okay…’ She smiled. ‘I understand. But keep it – just in case.’
They said goodbye and Fabel watched her as she walked back to her friends. She moved on her long shapely legs with the catlike elegance he remembered. Sonja rejoined her friends and they shared a joke and laughed, but she turned her head and looked back at Fabel, holding his gaze for a moment before re-immersing herself in the predictable jollity of an office night out.
He looked again at the scrap of paper and at the telephone number written in large figures.
Sonja Brun.
Fabel had come across her during a case in which a very brave undercover policeman called Hans Klugmann had lost his life. As part of his cover, Klugmann had become the boyfriend of Sonja Brun, a vivacious young girl who had somehow become drawn into porn shoots and part-time prostitution. Klugmann had clearly genuinely felt something for Sonja and had sought to free her from a degrading and self-destructive life. After Klugmann had been killed, Fabel had made a silent promise to a dead colleague: to finish the job and help Sonja escape from Hamburg’s notorious half-world of vice and corruption.
Fabel had used his contacts to find Sonja a small rented apartment on the other side of town, along with a job in a clothes shop. He had obtained details of courses she could take and before long Sonja had moved on to working in a shipping office.
Simple steps, but they had transformed her life at a time when she could have sunk even deeper by giving in to the grief of losing her lover and the anger of discovering that he had been living a lie. Fabel was pleased to see her so settled, and was relieved that she had succeeded in putting so much distance between herself and her past life.
Fabel had known the instant she had handed him her number that he was going to tear it up and drop it into the ashtray as soon as she left. But he found himself staring at the piece of paper and considering for a moment what he should do with it. Then he folded it in half and placed it in his wallet.
Fabel had just finished his coffee when his cellphone rang. He was annoyed that he had forgotten to switch it off. He often found himself out of step, out of time, with the modern world: cellphones in restaurants and bars were one of the many intrusions of twenty-first-century life that he found intolerable. All through the meal, as he had eaten alone, there had been a hollow feeling within him. He knew it was something to do with having encountered Sonja and her new life. It made him think of Kristina Dreyer. Maybe she really had cleaned up the murder scene simply to keep whole the universe of order and punctuality that she had built around herself.
Fabel answered his cellphone.
‘Hi, Jan, it’s me.’ Fabel recognised Werner’s voice. ‘You should have taken my advice about extending your holiday over the weekend…’
10.00 p.m.: Speicherstadt, Hamburg
Most of the lights were now out, but a central spotlight beamed down like a full moon onto the architectural model that stretched across the table top. Paul Scheibe gazed at it. There was still a butterfly flutter of pride in his chest each time that he saw this three-dimensional representation of his vision. His thoughts, his imagination, given solid form, even if that form was in miniature. But soon, very soon, his concepts would be written large on the face of the city. His proposal for KulturZentrumEins – Culture Centre One – overlooking the Magdeburger Hafen would be the centrepiece of the HafenCity’s Uberseequartier. His monument, right at the very heart of the new HafenCity. It would more than match the visual impact of the new concert hall and opera house on Kaispeicher A and it would rival the elegance of the Strandkai Marina.
Building would start in 2007, if his proposal got approval from the Senate and the design jury selected it. There were, of course, other proposals contending, but Scheibe knew with absolute certainty that none of them stood a chance against the boldness and innovation of his vision. At press conferences he had taken to wittily describing the competing proposals as pedestrian-area concepts. His reference was, of course, not to the function of the area but to the pedestrian abilities of his competitors.
The pre-launch party could not have gone better. The press had turned out in force and the presence of Hamburg’s Fi
rst Mayor, Hans Schreiber, as well as that of the city’s Environment Senator Muller-Voigt and several other key members of the city’s Senate, had underlined the importance of the project. And the full public launch would not take place for another two days.
Now Scheibe stood alone, all his guests gone, and contemplated his vision spread out before him. So close. The sequence of events that was already in train would see his ideas turn into a concrete reality. He would stand in a few short years on a riverfront boardwalk and look up at art galleries, a theatre, performance spaces and a concert hall. And all who viewed it would be stunned by its audacity, its vision, its sheer beauty. Not one building; yet not separate structures. Each space, each form, would link organically, in terms of its architecture and in terms of its function. Like separate but equally vital organs, each element would combine with the others to give life and energy to the whole. And all engineered to have practically zero environmental impact.
It would be a triumph of ecological architecture and engineering. But, most of all, it would be a testament to Scheibe’s radicalism. He took a long thick pull on his glass of Barolo.
‘I thought I’d find you still here.’ The voice was that of a man. He spoke from the shadows over by the doorway.
Scheibe did not turn, but sighed. ‘And I thought you’d gone. What is it? Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’
There was a fluttering sound and a folded copy of the Hamburger Morgenpost flew into the pool of light, crashing down onto the miniature landscape. Scheibe snatched up the newspaper, leaning forward and checking the model for damage.
