The Valkyrie Song jf-5

by Craig Russell

  Fabel sat at the corner of the bar, sipped at his Jever beer and thought about women. Whether he liked to admit the fact or not, it had been the women in his life who had determined its direction. Right down to the tiniest degree.

  It was a woman who had steered him into a career as a policeman.

  Fabel had attended the Carl von Ossietzky University in Oldenburg before studying European history at Hamburg University. While he had been there he had never quite managed to get involved in all of the expected student indiscretions. But he had been a good-looking kid and had had his pick of the girls. One of them had been Hanna Dorn, a fellow student and the daughter of one of Fabel’s tutors. Hanna had been a pretty, carefree sort of girl and they had both known, Fabel guessed, that they were not in it for the long term. They were having fun with the arrogant carelessness of youth. Now, every time Fabel thought about Hanna’s face, he concentrated hard to remember every detail. It was a face that, if what happened hadn’t happened, would have faded, along with her name, into the dusty, indistinct archives of his memory.

  One night, after they had been going out for about two weeks, Hanna had been making her way back alone to her flat after being with Fabel on a date. He had had an assignment to finish. Hanna never made it home.

  Lutger Voss had been a thirty-year-old hospital orderly at the St George Hospital. The only thing about Voss that had been exceptional was his psychosis. Voss had intercepted Hanna on her way home and abducted her.

  The autopsy and forensic evidence had later revealed that Voss had tortured and repeatedly raped Hanna. When her body had been found, Fabel, as her boyfriend and the last person to see her alive, had been questioned for hours by the Polizei Hamburg until they had become convinced of his innocence. But Fabel had never become as convinced of the absence of his responsibility: having an assignment to complete had not seemed reason enough not to have walked her home. Even now, more than twenty years later, he often woke up in the middle of the night racked with guilt because he hadn’t been there to save her.

  Lutger Voss had been committed to a secure hospital three days before Fabel had graduated. The day after, Fabel had applied to join the Polizei Hamburg.

  The young barman placed a fresh Jever on the bar in front of Fabel without him having ordered it. When Fabel raised his eyebrows quizzically, the barman nodded in the direction of a tall, lanky, balding man who was approaching him.

  ‘You’re late,’ Fabel said.

  ‘You’re obsessive.’ Otto Jensen grinned, in exactly the same gormless way Fabel remembered from their student days together. ‘Or maybe just depressive. I saw you when I came in. I’d offer a penny for your thoughts but I don’t think I’d get my money’s worth.’

  ‘I was thinking about women,’ said Fabel.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Otto kept grinning. ‘It’s your age. It’s not so bad — a midlife crisis is like puberty but without the acne.’

  ‘I was thinking about Hanna Dorn.’

  Otto’s grin faded. ‘Hanna? What made you think of her after all of these years?’

  ‘Otto, my friend, there’s hardly a week goes by that I don’t think of her. Or at least what happened to her.’

  They were interrupted by the barman bringing a wheat beer for Otto.

  ‘Every time I interview a sex killer, I think of Voss,’ continued Fabel once the barman was gone and he felt the cloak of loud music and other voices close around them. ‘Every time I read the forensic report on a rape and murder victim, I think of Hanna. If it hadn’t been for what happened to her I would never have become a policeman. I wouldn’t have singled out Murder Commission work as a career.’

  ‘And if I hadn’t read Heinrich Boll I wouldn’t have devoted my life to books,’ said Otto. ‘That’s life, Jan.’

  ‘How is business?’ asked Fabel. Otto ran Jensens’ Buchhandlung bookstore in Hamburg’s elegant Arkaden.

  ‘We’re clinging on. I did a book launch for a science-fiction author last week who very graciously announced that his next book would not be appearing on our shelves. He is releasing it exclusively as a downloadable e-book and audio book. We are, he assured me, finally attaining the “post-literate society” that many science-fiction authors, including himself, had long predicted. So move over — I may become a copper myself.’ Otto took a large sip of his wheat beer. ‘Anyway, why did you suggest meeting up here? It’s not your local any more.’

  ‘That’s why I was thinking about women,’ said Fabel gloomily. ‘Do you remember when I first moved here, to Poseldorf?’

  ‘When you and Renate split up.’

  ‘Exactly. You know, Otto, I like to think of myself as some kind of freethinker, liberated from dogma or prejudice or preconception; someone who sees the world afresh from my own perspective. It’s a pile of crap. The truth is that I’m just as much a product of my background as anyone else — just a simple, parochial, predictable bloody Northern German Lutheran. When I married Renate and then Gabi came along, I thought, this is it. This is my life. For the rest of my life. Then, when Renate pissed off with Behrens, my world came apart at the seams. And I ended up here, in my attic flat around the corner, rebuilding my life. Then, just when I got settled here and had a real idea of where I was with everything, I meet Susanne and all of a sudden I’m living in Altona and part of a couple again.’

  ‘I know,’ said Otto, with a mockingly sympathetic frown. ‘The bad beautiful woman took away your freedom. How can you live without sitting on your own eating takeaway meals in front of the TV? Are you trying to say you’re sorry you got involved with Susanne?’

  ‘No, not at all. What I am saying is that, every step of the way, there’s been a woman defining the moment for me. Hanna, Gisela Frohm

  …’

  ‘Jan, I don’t know where you’re going with all this.’

  Fabel smiled and slapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘Don’t look so worried, Otto. It doesn’t suit you. I’m just — I don’t know — it’s just this case I’m working on. It’s all about women.’

  ‘Oh God, yeah — this “Angel of St Pauli”.’

  ‘That’s only part of it. There’s this other thing as well. A female assassin. Probably based here in Hamburg.’ Fabel caught the expression on his friend’s face. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You…’ Otto made a show of being shocked. ‘You have never talked to me about a case you’ve been working on. Never.’

  ‘I’m becoming indiscreet in my old age. And if I can’t trust you, Otto, I don’t know who the hell I can trust.’ Fabel took another sip of Jever. ‘Anyway, at the moment everything I’m involved in seems to involve violent women. Speaking of which, Renate has been busting my balls as well.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Gabi has expressed an interest in a police career. It’s all my fault, apparently.’

  ‘Probably is. I find it’s best just to assume you’re always in the wrong. It works for me with Else. Anyway, I’m sure Gabi has been influenced by you. It’s not surprising that she’s thinking about becoming a police officer.’

  A table became free in the corner and they took their beers across to it. As Fabel chatted with his friend, he felt himself relax. Otto was one of the most clumsy and disorganised people he knew, yet Fabel knew that this bumbling two-metre-tall gawky tangle of chaos had one of the sharpest minds he had ever encountered. They had been friends since their first meeting and Otto had the ability to puncture Fabel’s occasional bubble of self-indulgence or self-importance. As they talked, Fabel became distracted: there was an older man by the bar whom Fabel knew he had seen before but couldn’t place. The man was dressed casually but everything about him reeked of wealth: his white hair was immaculately groomed and he wore an expensive-looking deep blue cashmere sweater. He looked out of place in the bar but Fabel guessed he was here as an indulgence to his companion, an exceptionally pretty woman who stood to his side and three decades behind him.

  ‘I’m guessing she went for his looks and personality.’ Otto
had followed Fabel’s gaze to the couple. ‘It’s called hyper-gamy, Jan: the tendency for women to select partners of a higher socio-economic level. We should consider ourselves lucky that Else and Susanne weren’t too fussy.’

  ‘They’re not a couple,’ said Fabel. ‘She’s a diversion for him. That’s not what’s bothering me. It’s the guy — I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere before. Do you know him?’

  Otto reached into his jacket pocket, put his glasses on and leaned forward, peering in the couple’s direction.

  ‘For God’s sake, Otto.’ Fabel eased his friend back. ‘You know you said you could always become a policeman if the book trade died off? Forget it. I’m guessing you’d find covert surveillance difficult.’

  Otto grinned. ‘Call it hiding in plain sight. As a matter of fact I do know him. Well, not know him, know of him. That’s Hans-Karl von Birgau. He’s some kind of business big shot, from an aristo family. I can’t for the life of me remember the kind of business he’s in. Does that help?’

  ‘Not really.’ Fabel frowned. ‘I just can’t remember where I’ve seen him before, but I have. Somewhere.’

  ‘Maybe he double-parked his Rolls-Royce and you gave him a ticket.’ Otto laughed heartily at his own joke.

  The older man and his young consort faded from Fabel’s thoughts when they moved through to a table at the back of the bar. Fabel and Otto stayed in the bar for another hour or so, although Fabel, as usual, switched to Alsterwasser shandies.

  Fabel suggested they get a taxi and he would drop Otto off on his way back home. After the warmth of the pub the night air was cold and damp. The breeze had picked up into a wind which maliciously threw chilled pellets of rain in their faces. Fabel had called for a taxi on his cellphone and he was annoyed to see that it hadn’t arrived. He spotted von Birgau and his youthful companion as they dashed past them from the pub. Lights flashed on a brand-new Range Rover Vogue that was parked a little way down the street. The man and the girl climbed in and they drove off.

  ‘Maybe it was his daughter,’ said Otto, with a wry smile. A beige Mercedes pulled up and Fabel found himself checking its roof sign and licence number before getting in. Otto did most of the talking until they pulled up outside his house. Fabel was aware that he was tired. And something was nagging away at the back of his head.

  ‘Altona,’ he said when the taxi driver asked him where to go after they had dropped Otto off. They had only travelled a few blocks when his cellphone rang.

  2

  Fabel knew the restaurant. He and Susanne had eaten there once or twice over the last three years. It was that kind of restaurant: only the seriously rich or seriously careless with their money could afford to be regulars there. It had huge picture windows that looked out across the harbour. Or at least it used to have huge picture windows. Fabel got the taxi to take him as close as it could to the restaurant: the road was blocked by two huge green MOWAG armoured cars, the word POLIZEI emblazoned white on their angled flanks. Three Heckler-and-Koch-armed MEK police officers, in full riot gear, blocked his path.

  ‘Fabel, Murder Commission.’ He showed them his ID. ‘Bomb?’

  ‘Looks like it, Chief Commissar,’ said one of the MEK officers, a woman. ‘It was planted in a car, from what we can see.’

  ‘Is the area safe for me to go in?’

  ‘Yes, Chief Commissar. The forensics team are still in there, though, doing their stuff.’

  ‘I’ll try and stay out of their way.’ Fabel walked down the street towards the restaurant. A few of the street lights had been blown out and temporary lighting had been set up on stands to allow the police and forensic technicians to do their job. The glass-covered road and pavements glittered in the arc lights as if strewn with jewels.

  ‘Thanks for the call, Sepp.’ Fabel extended his hand to a tall heavily built man with a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. Criminal Chief Commissar Stephan Timmermann of the Polizei Hamburg’s Anti-Terrorist Branch shook Fabel’s hand.

  ‘Hi, Jan. Think nothing of it. We thought it was terrorists to start with, but the target was Gennady Frolov. He has his new yacht moored in the harbour. The Snow Queen. He was in the restaurant for some kind of business meeting when his car went up. And boy, did it go up. I remembered that memo you circulated asking for background on Frolov, so I thought you might be interested and gave you a shout.’

  ‘I appreciate it, Sepp. Any fatalities?’

  ‘Unbelievably, no. A few injuries, none too serious. The restaurant had valet parking — you know, like the Americans — and they use walkie-talkies to communicate from the maitre d’ to the carhops so that the cars or taxis are always waiting as soon as a guest exits the restaurant. We reckon that by sheer chance the frequency they transmit on was the same as the remote trigger for the bomb. The maitre d’ radios for a car and boom, you’ve got a two-ton bulletproof Mercedes scattered across Hamburg in bite-size pieces.’

  ‘It must have been a big bomb,’ said Fabel. The cold night air was helping him to shake off the fuzziness he still felt from his beers with Otto.

  ‘It was,’ said Timmermann. ‘I reckon it was placed underneath the chassis. The car was one of those heavy bulletproof jobs, like I said, and its mass actually absorbed a lot of the blast. But I think that was the intention. The Merc was designed to withstand bullets from outside, so the bomber placed the device underneath, knowing that the blast energy would be concentrated in the cabin of the car. It’s called confined detonation velocity. However, it still produced enough explosive brisance to shatter every window around. But whoever planted this device knew there would be a limit to the shrapnelisation of the car body — because it was so heavily reinforced. All the injuries to bystanders are from flying glass.’

  ‘What kind of bomb?’

  ‘Early days, Jan, but you know we’ll be able to put it together. However, if you’re asking for my initial feeling, it would all indicate a blast velocity of somewhere around the eight-thousand-metres-per-second mark. That means it wasn’t TNT. My money’s on military-grade Composition C or some other RDX-based explosive. Electrical ignition. And remote radio initiation seems obvious. One of the lab rats has picked up a fragment of what looks like a semiconductor. Very professional job — except the one thing the bomber forgot to do was to build in a signal shield. That’s why the busboy’s radio set the bomb off.’

  ‘Is Frolov one of the injured?’ asked Fabel.

  ‘No. He was inside the restaurant and away from the windows. One of his bodyguards was outside at the time and has had her eardrum burst. Martina Schilmann. Ex-Polizei Hamburg. Of course, you know her, don’t you? Weren’t you and she…?’

  ‘Long time ago.’ Fabel sighed. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘A percussive injury like that from a blast causing a burst eardrum could be nasty. And it will definitely be painful. But apart from that she’s fine. One of the carhops is in a worst state, but nothing life-threatening there either.’

  ‘Is Frolov still here?’ asked Fabel.

  ‘Yep. Back inside for the moment. We moved him into a MOWAG armoured unit until we did a full sweep of the restaurant for a second bomb. It’s an old terrorist trick: set off one bomb prematurely to send a mass of people running for cover to exactly the place where they’ve hidden the second, bigger device. But nothing.’

  ‘We’re not dealing with a terrorist here.’ Fabel frowned. A bomb. ‘But it doesn’t fit my suspect either.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Timmermann. ‘Why?’

  ‘The bomber missed his or her target. My girl doesn’t miss. Ever. The other thing is I wouldn’t put a bomb down as her choice of weapon. A bomb is the weapon of choice of the indiscriminate and the cowardly — the terrorist at the end of the command wire or who has set the timer in advance to keep as much distance as possible between himself and potential harm, without caring how many innocent people get in the way.’

  ‘And that doesn’t fit with who you had in mind?’

  ‘No — I’m de
aling with a perfectionist. A precision thinker and worker. This is all too… too sloppy. This doesn’t feel right for my girl.’

  ‘I’m not too sure, Jan,’ said Timmermann. ‘I’d take issue with this not being a precision weapon. The confinement of the blast and the sophistication of the explosive and the device… Like I said, the only thing that doesn’t fit with me is that the bomber didn’t shield the detonator from third-party radio transmissions.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Fabel. ‘I think it’s time I had a chat with our Russki chum.’

  ‘I’d do that,’ agreed Timmermann. ‘Frolov’s own security people are kicking up. They’re all ex-Soviet special-forces types. All they’re interested in is putting as much distance as possible between Frolov and the scene.’

  ‘Then I’ll try not to detain him. See you later, Sepp.’

  There was even more glass inside the restaurant than there was on the street outside. Fabel again had to hold up his ID to an MEK cop wearing a black riot suit and body armour and cradling a Heckler and Koch MP5 machine pistol.

  The tables nearest the windows were empty and Fabel noticed the strange mix of the normal and the abnormal that one always found at scenes of sudden, violent crime. One table had the food still in place, untouched on its plates, the restaurant’s exclusive cutlery untouched and the expensive table linen still white and crisp, except for a vivid spatter of blood that had begun to spider at the edges, like red ink spilled on a blotter. Dark droplets dotted the knocked-over silver candlestick. Other tables had been upended, either by the blast or by panicked diners rushing to seek refuge at the rear of the restaurant.