A fear of dark water jf-6

by Craig Russell

  Niels closed his hand around the butt of the pistol still hidden in his pocket. But for some reason he hesitated. There was something about this situation, this environment, this event, that suddenly seemed overpoweringly familiar. Niels felt himself enter a fugue of deja vu. He felt he had taken the pistol out of his pocket but knew he had not.

  But then, Niels realised he knew what was going to happen before it did happen, and that this realisation had nothing to do with deja vu. Merc-Man pulled the sleeve of his jacket down over the palm of his hand in an improvised glove and snatched at the handle of the car. The door swung open and the man stepped forward. It was at that exact moment that the five litres of accelerant that Niels had dropped in through the shattered window ignited. It was like watching a flower blossom: a huge, curved, beautiful ball of flame burst out through the open door and up through the burning soft top. For a couple of seconds, Merc-Man disappeared into the flame, was consumed by it. Then Niels heard screaming. The girlfriend screaming. Onlookers screaming. He even heard a strangled, guttural cry, helmet-muffled, come from Harald behind him. But above it all, shrill and inhuman, he heard the screams of Merc-Man. The ball of flame surged up into the sky and Merc-Man was revealed again. His entire body was burning. All of him. A single walking, screaming flame. He staggered forward and fell onto the paving. A couple of onlookers ran forward and threw their coats over the burning man. Two men in the crowd suddenly noticed Niels and Harald and pointed at them.

  Niels remained static, staring at the burning man and trying to remember if he really had seen him burn before, so many times that Niels couldn’t count them. In that moment, he realised that none of what he was seeing was real. That everything they had tried to convince him of at the hospital had been lies. This was not reality. This was a fiction; an imitation. He did not really exist and what he had just witnessed had not really happened.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Niels…’ He heard Harald’s voice urgent behind him. ‘Get on the fucking bike. Now!’

  It took the men in the crowd a second or two to work out the chronology of events, to apportion the blame for what they had witnessed. By the time they had started to run towards Niels, he was already on the back of the stolen bike. Harald accelerated away, not stopping at give-ways and causing a couple of cars to come to a screeching halt.

  Sitting on the pillion seat, Niels still had the image of the screaming, burning man bright in his mind as they made their escape through the Schanzenviertel’s narrow streets. And he heard the strangest sound. Laughter.

  His own laughter.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘In the car. Hands-free.’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ said Susanne. ‘Welcome to the twenty-first century.’

  ‘This isn’t the twenty-first century,’ said Fabel. ‘I distinctly remember on TV back in the 1970s they promised that by now we’d all be scooting about on hovercars, wearing silver jumpsuits and taking our holidays on the moon. How’s Wiesbaden?’

  ‘Bourgeois. More bourgeois than Hamburg, if you can imagine that. Where are you going? Are you taking advantage of my absence to have a tryst with some lithe blonde?’

  ‘Hardly. I’m off to see Berthold Muller-Voigt. At his domicile, don’t you know?’

  ‘Since when did you hobnob with the Schickeria? What do you have to see him about?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. He asked me. Funny thing…’

  ‘In what way funny?’

  ‘Just that he’s usually so cool and in control. Something’s shaken him up. What, I think I’m about to find out. You missing me?’

  ‘Terribly, but the young Italian waiter from the restaurant is keeping my mind off it. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘By the way, what did you mean, “ Poppenbutteler Schleuse ”?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The text you sent me. Enigmatic, I’ll give you that.’

  ‘Jan, I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Earlier today,’ he sighed. ‘I was having lunch at the Fahrhaus cafe and I got a text from you. It said “ Poppenbutteler Schleuse ”. Nothing else.’

  ‘And I thought you never drank at lunchtimes.’

  ‘I’m not joking, Susanne. It came from your number.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t send it. Definitely. Maybe you do have a blonde stashed away somewhere and she’s telling you where to meet for that tryst. I believe there’s a really good restaurant there.’

  ‘I’m being serious, Susanne.’

  ‘So am I,’ she said emphatically. ‘I didn’t send you that text. Oh, Jan, you know what you’re like with technology. It took me ages to show you how to work an mp3 player and now you’d be lost without it. That message can’t have come from me. You better check with work. Maybe it was Anna Wolff. You know something? I sometimes get the feeling that Anna would like a little tryst with you up at Poppenbutteler Schleuse herself.’

  ‘Anna?’ Fabel snorted. ‘You’re way off there. For a psychologist, your insight stinks. But I will check with the office tomorrow and see if it was someone there who sent the text.’

  Fabel realised that he was already approaching Stade. He hated talking on the phone while driving; even with hands-free he felt you were taken away from the road you were travelling. Particularly when trying to puzzle out who could have sent you a cryptic text message and why they had sent it.

  ‘Got to go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Sleep well.’

  The sky had cleared a little and the sun was already low, painting the town of Stade red as Fabel approached it. He reflected that it was probably the only thing that had painted that particular town red for a long time: Stade was a sleepy, picturesque small town of canals, cobbled streets and gable-ended medieval buildings on the edge of the Altes Land — the Old Land — on the south side of the Elbe, about forty kilometres to the west of Hamburg. It was the kind of place that gave Fabel a sense of comfort. It appealed to the historian in him: Stade was over a thousand years old and one of the oldest settlements in Northern Germany. During the Middle Ages this small provincial town had been, in turn, a Swedish city, a Danish stronghold and a Hanseatic city-state in its own right. Now Stade was part of the Greater Hamburg Metropolitan Area, but nothing much seemed to change it and it stood, quiet, pretty and sedate on the banks of the River Schwinge, watching the passing of time and human follies with stately detachment.

  Fabel cursed as he found himself passing through the town’s ancient centre. He had been to Muller-Voigt’s home, on the outskirts of the town, before and had not had to drive through the town to get there. Fabel had been sure he would have been able to find it without any trouble and had not bothered to key the address into the satnav. The truth was that Fabel hardly ever programmed the satnav. Something told him it was the most human thing to find your own way, and that quite often some of the best things happened to you, the best discoveries made, when you had lost your way.

  Which was all well and good on a philosophical level, he thought, but not when you were late for an appointment with one of Hamburg’s most influential politicians.

  He made his way through Stade’s pretty centre, out into the countryside and found his bearings, driving along a narrow, straight ribbon of road beside the high banks of a canal. The sun was filtered through the tops of the trees, squeezing through a letter box of clear sky between the flat landscape below and a parallel bank of dark cloud above. The trees thickened into a dense wedge at the side of the road and Fabel swung into the long drive that he knew led up to Muller-Voigt’s home.

  It was just as Fabel remembered it: massive, imposing, modern, all angles and glass. And what wasn’t glass seemed to be faced with blue marble, although Fabel knew from his last visit that it was actually a facade made up entirely of solar panels.

  It was the kind of place that the architects would use on all their publicity. A mixture of masterpiece and pension fund.

  Muller-Voigt wa
s dressed in chinos, a blue long-sleeved corded shirt with a white T-shirt underneath and canvas deck shoes. It was the most casual of outfits, but Fabel reckoned it had cost more than some of Fabel’s best suits.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ the politician said as he opened the door. Fabel had the same feeling that he had had when the Senator had spoken to him in the Presidium’s elevator: that he was looking at a troubled man. Which was a disconcerting sight: Fabel had never seen Muller-Voigt troubled. In fact, he’d never seen him anything other than calm and relaxed. And totally in control.

  Like a million other Germans, Fabel had seen and heard Muller-Voigt in many stressful situations. Hamburg’s Environment Senator was the kind of guest live TV and radio producers loved: he had an innate knack of being able to make statements that were both provocative and combative while maintaining a relaxed outward calm. It was a style that was simultaneously nonchalant and aggressive. And it made for great media interviews. Muller-Voigt seemed to thrive in an environment of conflict and his value to broadcasters was the adroit way he could light the fuse of other politicians. Interviews would end with his opponent seeming to lack self-control and self-assurance. Muller-Voigt made full and effective use of the truism that whoever loses their temper loses the argument. Muller-Voigt never lost either.

  But tonight Fabel was seeing something different. Someone different.

  Muller-Voigt showed Fabel into a huge living room, pine-lined with a double-height vaulted ceiling and a banistered gallery above. Just as he had the last time he had been here, Fabel was annoyed at the vague pang of petty jealousy he felt looking around the politician’s elegant home. Elegant but totally environmentally friendly. The house was making a statement: it was cool to be green.

  They sat down on a large corner sofa facing the two-storey picture windows. The sun seemed tinged a different colour through the glass.

  ‘I can adjust it at will,’ said Muller-Voigt, as if he had read Fabel’s mind. ‘It’s the latest technology: energy-capture glass. It doesn’t just insulate and prevent the escape of warmth from the house, it actually captures solar power and converts it to energy.’

  ‘I see,’ said Fabel. ‘Very impressive.’

  ‘I know that many people — and I don’t know if you’re one of them — think this is all a bit of a gimmick with me. That I’m really more interested in the political than the natural environment. Normally I wouldn’t care what you or anyone else thought, but I need you to understand something, Herr Fabel: I am genuinely, completely and irreversibly committed to changing how mankind treats the environment. It’s more than a political belief; it’s how I see life.’

  Fabel shrugged. ‘I have no reason to doubt that.’

  ‘Well, as I said, some do.’ There was a hint of bitterness in Muller-Voigt’s tone. ‘As a race, as a species, we’ve lost our way, Herr Fabel. And it’s going to be the end of us. In fact, we’ve lost our most basic capability to read Nature, the geography and climate around us. Take where we are right now.’ He waved a hand vaguely at the landscape beyond the windows. ‘I built this house on a geest — an island of sand and gravel dumped as moraine by the last ice age, in the middle of a flat sea of heath, marsh and moor. If you look around this whole area you’ll see that almost every town is built on a geest, Stade included.

  ‘When these settlements were first created, our ancestors were connected to Nature and to the landscape. They could read the signs and learn from experience of changing weather patterns. And that meant they knew where to build their homes. Do you know something? These geests have provided the perfect protection against storm surges for a millennium of settlement. The marshes around them work like huge sponges and the geests themselves are natural flood barriers. Giant natural sandbags. And you see all the Knicks that run alongside the canals and rivers here?’ Muller-Voigt referred to the turf embankments, topped by trees and bushes, that criss-crossed the Altes Land and much of the rest of the Northern German landscape. ‘Some of those Knicks are older than the pyramids of Giza, built by our ancestors more than five thousand years ago. And do you know something, they remain the best protection against aeolian and fluvial erosion this landscape has.’ Muller-Voigt gave a small laugh. ‘Look at the millions and millions of euros spent on flood defences for Hamburg. Don’t get me wrong, they’re needed to protect people and property — but if you look at the historical flooding patterns of Hamburg over the last century or so, you’ll see all of the areas that have remained immune. And guess what? They’re all the oldest settled parts of the city, on the Hamburg geest slopes. That’s what we’ve lost, Fabel. Connection.’

  ‘I understand, Herr Senator, but I assume that’s not why you called me out here.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ I want you to remember what I have said because, believe it or not, it is relevant to what I have to talk to you about. There is a lot of discussion in the media about the environment, and it has slowly climbed the ladder of political priority, but it’s still not high enough. There is a disaster waiting for us, Herr Fabel, and it’s just around the corner. There are a lot of people who believe that extreme action has to be taken now. Very extreme action. Drink?’ Muller-Voigt asked, making his way to the cabinet.

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Fabel.

  ‘Of course. Never on duty…’ Muller-Voigt smiled a half-hearted smile.

  ‘Never when I’ve got the car. Anyway, I’m not on duty. This is, so far, unofficial.’

  ‘I appreciate that, Herr Fabel. You don’t mind if I do?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Fabel. It occurred to him that Muller-Voigt was not the kind of man who would normally need fortification to face anything.

  Ice tinkled against expensive crystal as Muller-Voigt brought his malt whisky over and sat opposite Fabel. ‘I really am grateful that you came to see me at such short notice.’

  ‘Well, it was pretty clear that it’s something urgent.’

  ‘Urgent, but, as you said, at the moment unofficial,’ said Muller-Voigt. He leaned back in the sofa and contemplated his whisky glass for a moment. ‘Obviously, I am kept fully up to date on all developments when something as major as the recent storm hits Hamburg. Storms and related damage lie within my purview, as you probably can imagine.’

  ‘I suppose so…’

  ‘So you’ll understand that any consequential fatalities and injuries are reported to me as a matter of urgency. Such as the body that was washed up at the Fischmarkt. The one I asked you about earlier today.’

  ‘As we already discussed, Senator, the woman washed up at the Fischmarkt wasn’t a consequential fatality. She wasn’t killed by the storm or flood.’

  ‘I see. How do you know she didn’t die as a result of the storm? And what makes you think she wasn’t a victim of this Network Killer?’

  ‘Listen, Herr Senator, I understand your interest, but all I can tell you is that the victim did not die as a result of the storm. The rest is a police matter at the moment.’

  ‘A Murder Commission matter, you mean…’

  ‘Herr Senator…’ Fabel infused a warning in his tone.

  Muller-Voigt put his whisky glass down. ‘I want to see the body,’ he said decisively.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want to see the body of the woman washed up at the Fischmarkt. I think I may be able to help you identify her.’

  ‘I doubt it. The body is in a condition that would make that difficult. There’s clearly something you want to tell me, Herr Senator. What is it? Why did you ask me to come here?’

  Muller-Voigt took another swallow of whisky. ‘You know my reputation, Herr Fabel. With women. The Hamburg press would have everyone believe that I am some kind of unprincipled sexual adventurer. Well, my private life is my private life. I am unmarried and I am fortunate enough to enjoy the company of beautiful and intelligent women. I always have. And for some reason that I have never been able to grasp, they enjoy mine. But I am not married and never have been, so I am betraying no marriage vows. Unlike, it must be said, mo
re than half of my upright married colleagues in the Hamburg Senate. Nor do I trick doe-eyed ingenues into bed or pay for cheap and nasty dalliances in the Reeperbahn. I’m not cheating on anyone and I treat the women with whom I am involved with respect and dignity.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ asked Fabel. ‘Your personal life is your own affair.’

  ‘Of all of the women with whom I have been involved over the years there have been only three for whom I had deep feelings. Genuinely deep feelings. One died a long time ago, while the second affair withered on the vine, as it were. The third is the woman with whom I was involved up until just two weeks ago.’ Muller-Voigt stood up, crossed the room to a bureau and came back holding a framed photograph. He fiddled with it for a moment before handing it over; Fabel realised that it was a digital photo frame and Muller-Voigt had been selecting the image he wanted to show him. It was a photograph of a young woman with dark hair and strikingly blue eyes. She was flashing a white-toothed grin at the camera but looked a little uneasy. Shy. She was also, Fabel could see, very beautiful.

  ‘This is Meliha,’ said Muller-Voigt. ‘I’ve been seeing her for the last three months. As you can see, she is considerably younger than me.’

  ‘She’s a very attractive woman,’ said Fabel and held the frame out to return it to Muller-Voigt. The politician made no move to take it.

  ‘Look at her very carefully, Fabel. She’s disappeared.’

  ‘Missing? How long?’

  ‘Not missing. Disappeared. Like I said, I was involved with her until two weeks ago, and then she disappeared without trace.’

  ‘And you think she might be the body washed up after the storm?’

  ‘I don’t know…’ Muller-Voigt shrugged, but there was nothing dismissive in the gesture nor in his expression. Fabel could see that he was a man in pain. ‘She could be.’