Birta made her way through the trees and around to where the long drive swept round to the front of the house. The drive had been cleared, the snow pushed into metre-high banks on either side. Birta edged along backwards, sweeping her footprints away as she moved, until she found a thinner stretch of piled snow. She jumped over it and onto the drive. From here on there would be no tracks to find. Before moving closer to the house, she unslung the rifle from her shoulder, unrolled the canvas sheet and laid out the parts for assembly.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ A male voice came from behind her.
Everything happened in one movement: she stood, turned, unfastened the sheath, and arced the knife up and into his chest, under his sternum. She thrust it with calculated extra force to penetrate the man’s heavy parka and the layers beneath. The man didn’t react: he would not have seen the knife, its non-reflective black polycarbide surface and the speed of her strike making it invisible in the dark. Still in the same continuous movement, Birta twisted the knife. The man’s eyes and mouth gaped at her as if in outrage or confusion, then he sank to his knees. Birta stood to one side and let him tilt forward and crash onto his face. She turned him over and established two facts within a second: he was dead; he was not her client. The dead man was in his late forties. It was difficult to tell through the layers of clothes, but he looked heavy-set. She opened up his parka and felt the warmth of a body that would no longer generate its own temperature. She checked him for a weapon. None. Not a bodyguard or cop. He had been carrying a large snow shovel and Birta guessed he must have been some kind of handyman. Why hadn’t he come up in her reconnaissance? She cursed to herself and wiped the blade of her knife clean on the shoulder of his coat, at the same time scanning the length of the driveway and the forest on its fringes. She resheathed the knife, unzipped her parka and unholstered her silenced automatic. No sign of anyone else.
Scanning the forest and the snowbank edge of the drive, Birta chose a spot and dragged the dead man across to it, through the snow and into the woods.
Back on the drive she picked up the unattached telescopic sight and used it to study the big bright squares of window on the house. She knew where the client’s study was and that he should be there working until about nine. The blinds had been left open and she could see the whole study. No client. She checked the other illuminated rooms. Nothing.
This was not good. Birta felt a vague panic in her chest and used her will to force it from her, as she’d been taught to do. When you were afraid, when you became stressed, that was when things went wrong. That was when you slipped up with the meeting; that was when people noticed you as you made your departure. Calm. Stay calm.
Birta again checked the driveway. Nothing. She stood motionless, holding her breath, absorbing the sounds of the night and the forest. She cursed again. She was going to have to close the forensic distance. It was a simple rule: the greater the forensic distance, the less the chance of detection and interception. The long-range sniper rifle was the perfect example: the bullet, which might have endured the trauma of passing through wood or glass, then flesh and bone before becoming impacted into brick or deformed by stone, was the only forensic link between you and the dead client. You had a forensic distance from point and moment of death, meaning you had a greater chance of getting away unseen.
But if she couldn’t see the client, she couldn’t use the rifle. He could, of course, simply be in the kitchen making himself a sandwich, but the fact that she had had to take care of a secondary meant she didn’t have the luxury of time. If she hadn’t been discovered by the handyman, then she would have sat it out, maybe an hour, maybe more, waiting for the client to reappear. She would have to get close. Maybe even go into the house. And that meant she was no longer forensically distant from the meeting.
Birta repacked the rifle in its case, again unholstered her handgun, and made her way towards the house.
2
Anna Wolff had spent three nights retracing the drunken footsteps of Armin Lensch. She had also spent the time thinking about the situation she had got herself into. She had been involved in seventeen murder cases since Fabel had selected her for his team. Seventeen different killings for motives as banal as drunken rage or sexual jealousy.
And a few, like these latest ones, had been for motives so twisted and abstract that she knew that no matter how long she served in the Murder Commission, she would never get the measure of the minds behind them. Fabel did, though. It was in itself a creepy thought: that he understood these people. Maybe he was right after all: maybe she wasn’t suited to being a Murder Commission officer.
Anna still couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that the guy she’d kneed in the groin was now dead. For some abstract reason she couldn’t understand, she felt she had contributed to his death. Maybe it wasn’t that abstract. From what she could gather from his friends, they had teased him about his encounter with her and he had gone off on his own into the night. And then someone had murdered him. The final element in a sequence of events that she could have been said to have set in motion.
It was too close for comfort.
‘Where do you want to go now, Commissar?’ Theo asked her. She turned to him. Theo Wangler was the Davidwache uniform who had been assigned to accompany her as she did the rounds of the bars and clubs. And the uniform hung well on him: Wangler was two metres tall and obviously worked out. Weights, Anna reckoned. He had a broad, strong jaw and when he had taken his hat off to brush back his hair with his fingers she had noticed it was thick, dark and wavy. People as good-looking as he was were usually assholes. She had decided in that instant of first meeting that she disliked him, but would not rule out a bit of a tumble with him. As it turned out, her first impressions had been wrong: Wangler was a quiet type, almost shy. But as they had gone from one bar to the other, she had seen he had a quiet assertiveness about him that kept the unruly in their place yet was unaggressive enough for him to be able to talk reason into all but the most drunk or the most cop-hating. It was, she realised, an ideal temperament for a police officer. A temperament she knew she didn’t possess. Anna decided to dislike Wangler all over again.
The Reeperbahn was long and wide and straight, ideal for weaving the reep, as rope was called in Low German, from which the former ropewalk street had got its name. By day it looked dreary and tawdry, by night it became one of the most illuminated streets in Germany. But, as they made their way along the Reeperbahn, there was something about its ten-thirty neon sparkle that was deeply depressing. A forced, manic jollity. Anna and Wangler had visited one sleazy bar after another, getting nothing from the bar staff. They had done most of their talking to the security men on the doors of the clubs and bars, most of whom, like the bartenders and hostesses, greeted Wangler with a warm handshake or at least a nod of acknowledgement.
‘I’ve worked here for four years,’ explained Wangler, as they made their way along the sinful mile, passing a sex shop with a window full of improbably proportioned sex aids. ‘You get to know people.’
‘Do you like working this beat?’ asked Anna.
‘It’s okay… people have the wrong idea about the Kiez. An old idea, I suppose. Even Superintendent Kaminski. He was on the beat here in the old days and I sometimes think he’s of the opinion that it’s all going to the dogs because the brothels are shutting up shop and the trendy bars, musical theatres and luxury flats are moving in. There’s even an advertising agency setting up its offices here.’
‘That’s all good, isn’t it?’
‘Well, there’s the other side to it. The Reeperbahn used to sell cheap sex. Now it sells cheap booze. The Kiez has become infected with the British Disease — binge drinking, particularly in the clubs. It’s changed the kind of street crime we deal with. Less thievery, more violence.’
‘Isn’t the ban working?’ Anna referred to the recent injunction against the carrying of any weapons in the Reeperbahn and the Kiez. A designated weapon-free zone had been set up, with y
ellow signs standing at the perimeter.
‘A little. But your Angel seems to be contravening it…’
Anna laughed. They broke off their conversation as they came to the doorway of another club. Two bull-necked Neanderthals stood with their hands folded in front of them in the traditional stance of security staff.
‘Why do they always stand like that?’ Anna asked Wangler. ‘You know, as if they’re protecting their balls?’
‘Maybe they’ve heard about you…’ Wangler laughed.
‘You know about that?’
‘Everybody knows about that.’ Wangler turned to the first doorman. ‘Hi, Heiner.’
‘Hi, Theo.’ The huge doorman spoke with a remarkably soft voice. A little high-pitched. ‘How’s it going?’
‘The usual. Listen, Heiner, this is Criminal Commissar Wolff of the Murder Commission. She’d like to ask you a couple of questions.’
‘She can ask me anything, any time…’ The doorman smiled at Anna. His mate joined in but Anna reckoned it was a reflex action. The other doorman did not look sufficiently evolved to be capable of independent thought. Anna returned the smile with a weary one of her own. She handed the doorman a photograph of Armin Lensch.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen this guy?’ asked Anna.
The doorman glanced at the photograph. He shrugged colossal shoulders and handed it back to Anna. Then he checked himself. ‘Wait a minute. Let me see it again…’ Anna handed the photograph back to him. ‘Yeah… yeah, I seen him. I seen him on Friday… no, Saturday night. Over there.’ He pointed across the wide roadway. ‘I seen him get into a taxi.’
‘You remember everyone you see getting into a taxi?’ asked Anna.
‘No. But I remember this guy because I didn’t think it was a taxi. Or a taxi on duty, anyway. It looked dodgy.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it was the right model — a Merc E-class, and it was the right colour, ivory-beige — but it didn’t have a roof sign. The reason I paid attention was ’cause I noticed the car came up from behind him. I don’t think he realised it wasn’t a taxi. You’ve got to watch for shit like that — you know, pervs pretending to be taxi drivers and picking up girls and stuff. Or drunken guys being picked up and rolled for their cash. It don’t happen much because nobody’s got a car the same colour as a taxi.’
‘And you would identify this man as the one who got into the taxi? Or fake taxi?’ Anna tapped the photograph.
‘Yeah, he was in here earlier in the night with a bunch of other guys. Mouthy little prick. I recognised him when I saw him over the road.’
‘You said you watch out for guys being rolled — why didn’t you report seeing him get into the car or do something to stop it?’ asked Wangler.
‘It could have been a genuine taxi. Whether it was or not, I didn’t think at the time that he was in danger.’
‘Why?’ asked Anna.
‘Well.’ Heiner the Neanderthal shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘I reckoned he was safe. With it being a woman driver and all…’
3
Birta drew close to the house, keeping to the edge of the shields of yellow light cast out onto the snow by the uncurtained windows. It was, she reflected, something you would never think about: drawing your blinds or curtains when you lived in a place like this. The forest was your shutter against the world. No one else to see you.
She could see no one in the lit rooms: she scanned the blank, dark windows too. Nothing. She made her way around the side of the house. There was a door halfway along. Locked. She went around to the back, keeping tight against the wall. There was another door at the back. She turned the handle and was rewarded with the door easing open. It led into the kitchen of the house: a large pine-clad room with expensive-looking fittings and a clutch of unmatched leather and upholstered chairs in one corner. The large fridge was bedecked with children’s drawings, scribbled notes, fridge magnets. Birta eased the door closed behind her and stood perfectly still, diverting all of her attention to any sounds from inside the house. Nothing. Shit, maybe he wasn’t here. That would normally not be a problem: she could replan, reschedule. But Birta had left her mark on this location: there was a middle-aged man with a ripped heart lying out in the woods.
She edged out into the hall. Still no sounds of life. Birta made her way along towards the study. She was about halfway along, checking every room as she passed, when the door to the left immediately ahead opened and the sound of a refilling toilet cistern filled the hall. The client stepped out into the hall and gave a start when he saw Birta standing there. She snapped the pistol up and aimed at his head.
‘I’ve been expecting you,’ he said, and smiled falteringly.
‘Me?’ Birta said.
‘Well, not you specifically, but someone like you.’ He looked past her along the hall. ‘I suppose I expected it to be a man.’
‘I’m not a man,’ said Birta. No point in looking behind me, she thought. Your handyman is not coming. No nasty surprise for me. No reprieve for you.
‘I can see that… listen, you don’t have to…’ The client didn’t finish the sentence. Birta’s bullet hit him in the centre of his forehead and he toppled backward, his body rigid, like a felled tree. She walked over to where he lay. Birta knew he was already dead: there were sounds from his body — post-mortem sounds — his pale trousers were stained with urine and she thought she could smell excreta. Violent death, she knew, was seldom clean. Or odourless. Dark red, almost black blood oozed from a nostril and his left ear. Nevertheless, she crouched down at his feet, aimed along his fallen body at the underside of his jaw and fired a second shot. The client’s head twitched as if he was shaking his head in protest, but Birta knew it was the low-velocity hollow-point doing its work inside the confines of his skull, destroying his brain.
She stood up and marked in her head where she was in the hall and how she had got there. Measuring the forensic distance.
Meeting concluded.
She drove back through the night. There were flurries of snow but the highways had been cleared. She settled back into the comfort of the driver’s seat and switched on her music, making sure she was relaxed but not so much that she would make a mistake that would draw attention to her. She again crossed the Swedish border on a road without a customs point and headed towards Stockholm. Birta returned the car to Stockholm-Bromma airport the next morning and then made her way to the airport car park where her Danish-registered car was parked. As she did so Birta Hennigsen, who had existed as an identity for only a little more than thirty-six hours, began to fade from being.
4
Fabel headed into the Police Presidium early, driving through Winterhude just as the sun was coming up. The sky was clear and the lying snow had been crisped by the overnight frost. Fabel loved it when it was like this. Since he was a boy, he had been a winter person.
When he arrived at his office he checked the internal email and found there was a reminder from van Heiden about the conference on violence against women. Another reminder. Fabel typed in a brief response explaining he needed a meeting with van Heiden urgently. He also left messages for Anna and Werner that he wanted to see them as soon as they came in.
Fabel opened his desk drawer and took out the sketch pad, laid it on his desktop and flipped it open. He stared at the empty, clean expanse of white paper and sighed. It always started this way. Fabel had used these sketch pads for fifteen years of murder investigations. Singles, multiples, serials. No one except Fabel ever saw these pads. For Fabel, this was a completely different exercise from the plotting of an investigation on an incident board. This exercise had nothing to do with a team effort: it was the externalisation of his thought processes. These clean pages would fill with names, times, places: all connected by a web of lines. Alongside them would be phrases, press cuttings, quotes from statements. And ideas: foul, dark ideas. Fabel remembered how once, when investigating a serial-murder case, he had come across the notebook of the killer: ob
sessively neat but tangled threads connecting; words underlined, scored out, circled, triple question-marked. It had chilled Fabel to the bone to see how similar the insane methodology of the killer was to his own.
Fabel took a marker and at the top of the page wrote in block capitals the name ANGEL, followed by three question marks. Then he noted, on opposite sides of the page, the names of the two St Pauli victims. Then, referring to the case files and his notebook, be began plotting out the key elements of the case. But as he did so, another case kept shouldering itself into his way: that of the dead Danish policeman. He tried to shake it clear of his mind: it wasn’t even a case yet, although Moller, the forensic pathologist at Butenfeld, had grudgingly promised that the autopsy results would be available about lunchtime. He thought back to Karin Vestergaard and remembered that she had been beautiful, yet somehow he could not picture her face.
His reflections were interrupted by the arrival of Anna Wolff and Werner Meyer in his office. He closed over the sketch pad and put it back into his desk drawer, asking Anna and Werner to sit as he did so.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Where are we?’
‘I went to see Viola Dahlke’s husband,’ said Werner. ‘That was tough. Nice guy, ordinary family. Had no idea his wife had a secret life.’
‘I take it you didn’t enlighten him about the nature of that life?’
Werner frowned. ‘Give me some credit. But she sure has a lot of explaining to do. Anyway, her husband confirms that she was at home the night Westland was killed. I take it we can let her go.’
‘A spousal alibi isn’t enough in itself,’ said Fabel. ‘But we don’t have enough to go for an extension of detention. And anyway, I’m convinced both St Pauli killings are the work of the same person and we know for a fact that Viola Dahlke did not commit the second one.’
‘I’ve checked all the taxi drivers working St Pauli the night Lensch was killed — three of whom were women. None of them picked him up or remember him at a rank or trying to flag a taxi. So it looks like it was our woman.’
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