The Northern Cross (A Baltic Sea Crime Novel Book 2)

by Hendrik Falkenberg

  “Well, at least she wrote you.”

  Before Anna and Hannes could really get to know each other, she had quit her job as an executive assistant at a pharmaceutical company and had flown to Southeast Asia for several months.

  “I need to clear my head first and then think things over. I hope you understand,” she had said to Hannes after they’d kissed good-bye at the airport. Their first real kiss.

  Hannes had understood only too well after the events of the past summer. Yet he had also been reluctant to let her go. The right words had been on the tip of his tongue, but he never said them. After staring at him for a moment, Anna had hugged him one last time before joining the security line, never once turning around.

  “You know what?” Hannes said, his eyes fixed on his beer. “You’re right. I’m completely inept when it comes to women. When I said good-bye to Anna, I wanted to tell her something, but I couldn’t. Sometimes there’s only one right moment, and if you miss that moment, it’s probably too late.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The mood at the station plummeted over the next few days. It was fifty degrees outside. The summer was gone, and the gray, rainy weather cast a pall over the city. Steffen Lauer made for an even tenser mood, demanding routine updates even when there was nothing new to report.

  Alexander Kramer’s apartment had been thoroughly searched. There were plenty of sex toys found in the process, and Hannes’s ears had burned as he’d reported the discoveries to Federsen. The items did little to improve Federsen’s opinion of Kramer, and the apartment had provided no clues. It was the typical apartment of a man in his early thirties, with workout clothes and exercise equipment.

  Federsen seemed almost giddy when he opened the door to Hannes’s office on Thursday.

  “Those reporters aren’t as bad as everyone here says,” he said.

  His wool sweater hiked up his paunch as he walked over to Hannes’s desk. Upon noticing Hannes’s red nose and watery eyes, he stepped back. Their field trip to the wet and windy crime scene had given the ill-dressed Hannes a severe cold.

  “Just yesterday you were cursing those bast—” Hannes blew his nose into a tissue.

  “True, but that was before I dealt with this woman from The Daily Courier,” Federsen said as he took a few more steps away. “Unlike those pompous asses from the national media, she has a very good understanding of our situation. We spoke last night, and I wish all members of the press would follow her example.”

  Despite his headache, a bit of life sprung back into Hannes. He pulled a copy of the current Daily Courier from his bag and unfolded it on his desk.

  “I wondered,” Hannes said and sniffed, “how the reporter knew so much. Her article fills the entire front page, and your name pops up.”

  Federsen stepped a little closer. The look of satisfaction suddenly vanished once he saw the headline, which was clearly intended to drum up sales.

  “‘Police Overwhelmed in Jesus Murder’?” Federsen read, breathing hard. His face turned dangerously red as he skimmed the article. He came off as utterly incompetent.

  “That damn bitch. What’s she trying to suggest? ‘Detective Federsen seems far from capable and doesn’t give the impression of being up to the task. As an excuse, he cites the department’s lack of staff.’ Excuse? If that bimbo wants to dig up dirt, maybe she should start by looking on her own desk. Of course we don’t have the man power.” He glared at Hannes. “If they’d given me a couple of competent detectives, we’d be much further along. Instead, I get stuck with some semipro athlete who produces little more than snot.” He pointed a nicotine-stained finger at Hannes. “That bitch has underestimated me. I’m going to give her editor a piece of my mind.”

  Federsen slapped the desk with the now rolled-up newspaper and stormed into his office. He slammed the door behind him and got on the phone.

  Ten minutes later, Hannes was in Federsen’s office when Steffen Lauer walked in with a copy of the Daily Courier.

  “Detective Niehaus, would you give Detective Federsen and me a moment alone?” he asked in a forced voice, his mustache twitching. Hannes was happy to comply. Lauer closed the door, but Hannes listened in for a moment.

  “Henning, you’ve gone too far this time. Not only did you give the newspaper an unauthorized interview, but now you’ve gone and insulted the editor-in-chief and his ‘dimwitted intern’ over the phone. Not to mention threatened to . . .”

  Isabelle was sitting at a rickety table. She was also in her early thirties, but Hannes hadn’t talked with her much before. Although she wasn’t very attractive, she was the indisputable Pollyanna of their floor. Isabelle stared out the rain-washed window, and Hannes startled her with a loud sneeze.

  “Well, misery always loves company,” she said.

  “So you haven’t gotten anywhere with your case either?”

  “No, not at all. Fortunately your crucifixion has overshadowed everything else, and nobody’s interested in the dead woman found at the dock.”

  “You’re welcome,” Hannes joked, settling into a chair across from her. “Plus you have a nice boss. Mine’s a rabid dog.”

  “Nice.” Isabelle smiled, and the shine returned to her blue eyes. “What’s he done now?”

  “Nothing. His fangs are being filed down as we speak.” Hannes pulled out a tissue in the nick of time. When he told Isabelle about Federsen’s battle with the press, the mood brightened a little in the small break room.

  “This is the first good thing I’ve heard all day,” Isabelle said.

  “Well, I’m sure the worst is yet to come.” Hannes knew his moment of triumph would not last long. “If we don’t come up with a lead soon, Lauer’s going to nail us to the cafeteria door.”

  “Where do you stand at the moment?”

  “I’ve interviewed all the people Alexander Kramer worked with at the porn studio. Nobody really knew him. At least they could all recognize him in the photos. One of the cameramen knew he had a sister, but we haven’t been able to reach her.”

  “Why not?”

  “She seems to be out of town. She lives in the city and is some sort of artist. Their parents died a long time ago.”

  “Have you checked all the alibis of the people at the studio?”

  “Yup. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to say when exactly the crime took place. So not all of his colleagues have solid alibis. However, the gaps in their whereabouts aren’t big enough to warrant suspicion. Right now, we’re trying to find out more about his family and friends.”

  Hannes and Federsen hadn’t yet successfully identified the dealer Alexander Kramer owed money to. Questioning the victim’s neighbors hadn’t unearthed much.

  “Maybe you should reveal his identity in the press and ask for the public’s help?” suggested Isabelle. “Your boss has a good contact, I hear . . .”

  “We’ll probably have to.” Hannes had already wondered why the public didn’t know the victim’s name, given the enormous amount of media attention the case had garnered. But the police had questioned a number of potential witnesses, so it was only a matter of time before the first newspaper touted, “Jesus Was a Porn Star.”

  “How’s it going with you?” Hannes asked.

  “Not much better. The dead woman had a horse farm about twelve miles outside the city. She ran the operation with her husband and lived an unobtrusive life.”

  “How’d she die?”

  “Painfully. Found curled up against a wall in a secluded area of the port. Some sort of poison was injected into her abdomen, but there were no signs of a struggle. She was discovered relatively soon after she died by two young lovebirds. Maria thinks she died a few hours before.”

  “So you’re taking a break from doing nothing,” Federsen said from the doorway, and a frightened Hannes looked over. “Finish your chitchat. We’ve found Kramer’s sister.”

  Half an hour later, the detectives stood in the small courtyard in front of Antje Kramer’s workshop. It was surrounded by a thic
k row of hedges and situated at the end of a narrow dead-end alley. Gravestones and a variety of other finished and semifinished bird baths, sculptures, and fountains littered the ground. Antje Kramer was a stonemason and sculptor.

  Hannes hated meeting with victims’ relatives because he didn’t know how he should behave around them. The woman’s tears slowly ran dry, and Hannes handed her a tissue. They blew their noses at the same time.

  “I can’t believe it,” she kept saying.

  “We also find it hard to believe that this is the first time you’ve heard about your brother’s death,” Federsen said. “The story’s all over the news, and you should have been able to recognize the blurry images.”

  “I only heard about it on the radio,” Ms. Kramer said, glaring at him. “I was at a training course in the mountains at Bergisches Land and had other things to do than watch the news. Had I known that—” A sob cut her short.

  While Ms. Kramer fought to regain her composure and Hannes struggled to control his legs, the detectives scanned the courtyard. Federsen didn’t believe women belonged in professional trades either. He frowned when he saw a particularly kitschy gravestone with two angels leading a man over a bridge.

  Ms. Kramer followed his gaze and said, “What I want doesn’t matter when I do commissioned work. The customer gets what the customer wants. I prefer to do sculpture.” She pointed at some of her works in the corner of the yard. “Unfortunately, sculpture doesn’t pay the bills, hence the gravestones. They’re recession-proof.” She grimaced.

  “What kind of gravestone will you make for your brother?” Federsen asked.

  Hannes suffered a violent fit of coughing, and his face turned red.

  “Uh, Ms. Kramer. What my colleague meant to say was: What kind of person was your brother, and why might he have been killed in this bizarre way?”

  “You mean because he starred in pornos?” Ms. Kramer asked while glaring at Federsen again. “Do you think he was a bad person? Because he wasn’t. He was honest and sincere. And definitely more sensitive than this jerk.”

  “My dear Ms. Kramer,” Federsen said, “I want to find your brother’s murderer as quickly as possible, and pussyfooting around won’t help. Who knew your brother, and who could have wanted him dead?”

  Ms. Kramer sat down. Then she shrugged and turned to Hannes. “I have no idea. He never said he was in trouble. We had a close relationship, so he would have told me. I just know . . . Well, my brother did do cocaine every now and then and wasn’t particularly good with his finances. He owed some money to his dealer, who began to pressure him to pay him back.”

  “Do you have a name?” Federsen asked.

  Ms. Kramer thought hard and, ignoring Federsen again, directed her response to Hannes. “I can’t remember. Dennis or something.”

  “Last name?” demanded Federsen.

  Ms. Kramer shook her head and looked down at her chapped, dust-covered hands. “Please find the person,” she said softly. “Find whoever did this to my brother.”

  It was clear she could offer no more help at the moment. Federsen nodded, and Hannes handed her his business card. As they were leaving, Hannes saw a knee-high figure peering from a window in the workshop. A lifelike man wearing a loincloth and crown of thorns hung on a cross atop a small hill. The figure stared in torment at Hannes, his eyes following him as he shuffled behind his boss.

  They returned to the station, where Federsen bitterly watched from his office chair as Hannes blew into a tissue. He wreathed himself in cigarette smoke as if it were an impenetrable wall against the germs.

  “If you infect me, you can kiss this job good-bye. What do you think about this sculptress?”

  “I called the school in the Bergisches Land. She was there at the time in question, so the alibi checks out. She was also understandably beside herself. We should question her again once she’s had some time.”

  “She can’t be that sensitive. She’s not exactly the dainty type. I find it hard to believe she didn’t know much about the murder. A hermit would have heard all about the story by now. Anyway, she’s the only person who can help us right now. Call her later when she’s calmed down. Damn it, pull yourself together.” He pounded on the desk and stared at Hannes as he let loose another sneeze. “Steffen scheduled a briefing in five minutes. Stay here, and update the facts on the whiteboard. Use your brain. There has to be a clue somewhere in that scribbling.”

  Hannes watched Federsen leave, then searched with disgust through the used tissues in his pocket to find his nasal decongestant and choked the pill down. Then he wiped the whiteboard clean and wrote down everything they knew about Alexander Kramer again. With every sneeze, he made sure to cover Federsen’s office a little bit more in his germs. When he had all the facts before him, he shook his head. If there was a crucial piece of information hidden in there, he didn’t see it. No suspects, no motive.

  As soon as he had left Federsen’s contaminated office, his desk phone rang.

  “Johannes Niehaus,” he answered.

  “It’s Antje Kramer. You were just here.”

  “I was about to contact you. How are you doing?”

  “I need to make arrangements for my brother’s funeral.”

  “His body is with the medical examiner. Unfortunately, I don’t know when it will be released. But if you’d like to see him, I can schedule an appointment.”

  “No. I don’t think I want to see him like that. Incidentally, I’ve made a list of all the people Alex knew. Should I read it?”

  “No, I’ll come by and see you again.” Hannes coughed and hung up.

  Hannes looked at the stone cross on the windowsill in the small workshop. The eyes of the sculpted Jesus were fixed on him, as if they wanted to tell him something.

  “That was my journeyman’s piece,” said Ms. Kramer, following his gaze. “It was a challenge. I didn’t know where to begin. My brother really liked it, even though he was usually critical of Christian symbols. Tragic, huh?”

  “How did you get into stonework? Isn’t it a rather male-dominated profession?”

  “It is. During my apprenticeship year, there was only one other woman. I had an office job, but I wasn’t happy. I always liked being creative, and I fell in love with stonework after taking a video course. It’s fascinating what you can make out of a rough block of stone.”

  Hannes looked around the dusty workshop and nodded. Ms. Kramer knew her craft. He picked up a small hammer; it was surprisingly light.

  “That’s a lump hammer. I use it with a chisel to engrave headstones. I prefer traditional hand tools. They’re more enjoyable. The work takes longer, but it’s more exact. I get a better feel for the stone.”

  She led Hannes to a wooden bench with various almost medieval-looking devices. Had Hannes not known any better, he would have guessed they were the tools of a torturer. His head began to spin when Ms. Kramer explained the functions of the strange items: crandalls, round mallets, bush hammers. Only the splitting hammer looked familiar.

  “How long does it take to learn to use these tools?”

  “You apprentice for three years. But I haven’t passed the exam to become a master craftsman yet. Did you know that it’s one of the oldest craft professions in the world? Chiseled rocks discovered in the Dordogne are about four thousand years old.”

  It was obvious Ms. Kramer had found her passion. Hannes listened as she continued to proudly explain the history of her craft. For a moment, it seemed she had forgotten her grief. Her unruly blonde hair framed a face that must have usually looked young and full of life.

  “Was your brother also creative?” he asked. By this point, he desperately wanted to crawl into bed and sleep.

  “Not really. He once jokingly tried to carve a horse out of a stone block. He loved horses. But the result looked more like a mythical creature.” She smiled and leaned down to dig out a small object. Her hair fell to the side, revealing a small tattoo on her upper neck. It looked like a Nordic rune, but it could ha
ve also represented a cross being split in two by lightning. Hannes had noticed the same symbol on several works in the yard.

  “Here.” Ms. Kramer handed him a lump of stone. “This was the result.” She smiled when she saw the look of doubt on his face, because it took a great deal of imagination to recognize the shape of a horse.

  “What’s the meaning of that rune you carve into the stones?” Hannes asked.

  “That’s my mason’s mark. It’s how a mason designates his or her work. It’s kind of like a signature. There’s not really any deeper meaning to it. I used to be more religious and am still very interested in sacred buildings, because they often have masterpieces by earlier sculptors. Sometimes I’m asked to restore monuments or statues on historic buildings. But I don’t want to bore you any longer about my stonework. You’re here for the list.” She wiped her dusty hands on her black jeans and pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket. “I hope I didn’t forget anyone.”

  Hannes scanned the list, but none of the names jumped out. “I’ll need you to help me a little,” he said and pulled out a pen.

  They hunched over the list together. Hannes already knew the first three names: Kramer’s film partner, Inga; Melcher, the head of the studio; and quirky Gertrude.

  “Unfortunately, I only know four people at the studio. Alex didn’t talk much about it. He knew I was a little uneasy with my little brother starring in pornos.”

  “Hold on. Which four? I spoke to everyone at Paradise Images & Productions, but I only recognize three people on this list.”

  She pointed to the fourth name from the top. “Manuel. I don’t know his last name. He’d been promised the lead role in Alexander’s first film. But then Alex replaced him, and he wasn’t cast again.”

  Hannes remembered the young man he’d seen as he left the studio. “Do you know why Alexander was given his role?”

  “Manuel didn’t get along with his female costars.” Ms. Kramer shrugged. “He wasn’t thrilled at being upstaged by my brother. After Alex’s first day of filming, he ambushed him outside the studio. He didn’t show up after that, and Alex never mentioned him again.”