‘The workmen her neighbour talked about?’
Fabel did not answer; instead he sifted through the paperbacks as if he were slowly shuffling cards. An English edition of Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell. A German edition of Der Richter und sein Henker by Friederich Durrenmatt. A copy of Silent Spring by Rachael Carson, again in English. He looked through them again. There was something significant about the mix of books, but he could not think what it was. He stepped out of the bedroom, the books still in his hands. By the time they had finished, the forensics team had arrived.
‘You been handling anything else I should know about?’ asked Holger Brauner, with a nod towards the books in Fabel’s hand.
‘You won’t get anything here, Holger,’ said Fabel. ‘Have a look around. What’s wrong with this picture?’
Brauner scanned the room, then turned back to Fabel and shrugged. ‘You got me… other than it’s a hell of a tidy place.’
‘Someone’s beaten us to it,’ said Fabel. ‘Real professionals. They’ve cleaned up behind themselves.’
‘I wish they’d turn over my apartment,’ said Anna. ‘It could really do with a spring clean.’
‘But that’s not all that’s wrong with this picture. You too, Anna. Notice something odd?’
They both looked around the room again. Anna frowned for a moment, then a look of enlightenment swept across her face.
‘Same as the last Network Killer victim?’
‘Exactly,’ said Fabel. Brauner made a confused face.
‘No computer…’ said Fabel. ‘No computer, no cellphone, no chargers, no memory sticks, not even an electronic calculator.’
‘So what are you saying?’ asked Brauner. ‘That the Network Killer has been here too?’
‘I can guarantee you it wasn’t the Network Killer, Holger. That’s one thing I’m certain about. It was someone else who turned this place over and took Julia Henning’s computer and cellphone. Someone who didn’t want us to know who the Network Killer was and what had happened to him.’
‘Now you’ve lost even me,’ said Anna.
‘All in due time,’ said Fabel. ‘In the meantime can you do the follow-up here? I want to get back to the Presidium. I need to talk to Fabian Menke about-’
He was interrupted by his cellphone ringing.
‘Hi, Jan, it’s Werner. You’re not going to believe this… we’ve got another body in the water. The Harbour Police have just notified us that they’ve fished a body out of the river near the mouth of the Peutehafen. They’re transferring it to Butenfeld.’ Werner used the police shorthand for the mortuary at the Institute for Legal Medicine, where the bodies of all sudden and suspicious deaths were taken.
‘I’ll be right there,’ said Fabel.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Fabel, Nicola Bruggemann and Werner Meyer stood without speaking and looked down at the body that had been wheeled out into the main morgue hall by the attendant. Outwardly, it looked like some token of respect: a moment’s silence. The truth was that they were doing what they had learned to do as police officers. You took a moment to look, to examine, to assess. To bring your fresh perspective to someone’s death.
The body on the mortuary trolley was thin and pale, the ribs showing through the pallid skin and the upper arms skinny. Despite the evidence of stubble on his chin, the dead male looked more boy than man. There were four holes, now bloodless, in his skull, two above the hairline and two below, puncturing the skin of his broad forehead. Fabel noticed dark mottling on the pale skin of his brow: powder burns from a close-quarter shot. He was on his knees, thought Fabel. Probably begging for his life.
A larger, uglier wound gaped beneath his jaw, where one of the rounds had exited. There was a dark green tattoo on his left breast, like a small inverted loop.
‘These, apparently, are the mortal remains of one Harald Jaburg,’ said Werner, with an expression that suggested he had just tasted something sour. ‘We found his ID in his jeans pocket. Unemployed. Twenty-eight years old.’
‘I thought he would be younger,’ said Fabel absently. He turned to Bruggemann. ‘Our workload seems to be growing exponentially. I think I’ll take you up on your offer.’ He ignored Werner’s quizzical look.
‘He has a tattoo on his chest,’ said Bruggemann. ‘Right above his heart. Some kind of symbol.’
‘I saw that, too,’ said Fabel. ‘It looks to me like the lowercase version of the Greek letter gamma.’ He turned the corpse’s arms over to examine the inside of the forearms. ‘No track marks.’
‘He doesn’t look the Classics type to me,’ said Werner.
‘No…’ said Fabel. ‘Nor me. Do we have an address for him?’
‘Billbrook. We’ve got uniform onto that,’ said Werner. ‘God, Jan, if we go on like this, we’re going to have to hire a fishing boat to trawl the Elbe for all the stiffs in the water.’
‘It would never be allowed,’ said Bruggemann. ‘I think we’ve already exceeded our EU quota.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Fabel. ‘Werner, I know you’re up to your eyes and I’ve left Anna at Meliha Yazar’s place, but I’d like you and Henk to follow this one up too. Run his name through the computer and speak to Organised Crime Division. This looks like a drugs thing, but he wasn’t a user as far as I can see. Ask them if there’s any gang they know of that uses the symbol gamma as a tag.’
‘Okay, Jan. But he looks to me even less like a gang member than he does a Classics scholar.’
‘Could have been small fry,’ said Bruggemann. ‘Someone suspected of cheating or being a snitch. But no, I agree he doesn’t look like the type.’
The mortuary attendant came back carrying a heavy-duty polythene bag. He dumped it unceremoniously on top of the dead man’s chest. ‘You asked for his clothes,’ he said. ‘They’ve been bagged for the forensics people. They’re still wet, so they’d better get them out of that bag quickly or they’ll go mouldy.’
‘Cheery chap,’ said Werner sarcastically after the attendant had left them alone again. ‘It must be the job that brings out the optimist in him.’
Fabel read the evidence-tag list attached to the bag out loud. ‘Black or dark grey hooded top. Black or dark grey jeans. Dark green T-shirt. Studded leather wrist band, right wrist. Broad leather-banded wristwatch, left wrist. Alloy metal neck chain with symbol pendant…’ Fabel shook and tilted the clear polythene bag. There was a considerable amount of oily water trapped in it with the clothes, but he spotted the neck chain. As he suspected, the pendant was also in the form of the Greek letter gamma. ‘… Dark red ankle-length socks. Black leather engineer boots. Leather wallet containing ID, twenty-five euros in notes, further fifteen euros in coins. White boxer-style undershorts.’
‘Funny, that,’ said Bruggemann. ‘I would have put him down as a briefs type.’
Fabel did not respond but instead took out his notebook and flicked back a couple of pages. When he found what he was looking for, he leaned across the body and handed the open notebook to Werner, who frowned as he read Fabel’s notes.
‘No…’ Werner said, handing the notebook back. ‘You don’t think
…?’ He nodded towards the corpse between them.
‘His clothing exactly matches the description of what the rider of the motorbike was seen wearing.’
‘It’s a common enough look, Chef.’
‘Are you talking about the arson killing?’ asked Bruggemann.
‘We need to get a time of death for this guy,’ said Fabel. ‘My money is on it being after the Schanzenviertel attack.’
‘You still want me to check with Organised Crime?’ asked Werner.
Fabel nodded. ‘It could still be something else. But I have a line of enquiry I want to follow up myself…’
There was no doubt in his mind this time. Fabel had only driven fifty metres from Meliha Yazar’s apartment when he had thought that he had seen the large VW Tiguan pull out from behind a parked van and into traffic four or five cars back. But t
hen he had lost sight of it and there had been no sign of it behind him as he had driven up to the Butenfeld mortuary in Eppendorf. But when he had left the morgue he had seen it again, once more keeping a distance of four or five cars back. Sometimes it was as if the VW did not need to keep him in view at all. A couple of times, when the four-by-four was out of sight behind a corner, he had taken a sudden turn off the road and followed a new route, only to see the VW appear a few blocks later.
He continued to head towards his destination, the docks. There was much less traffic now and the VW found it difficult to find cover in the thinning camouflage of other cars. It was now only two cars behind him. Fabel used his cellphone to contact the Presidium. Anna Wolff, who was now back from Meliha Yazar’s apartment, took his call.
‘I’ve got good news and bad news, Anna. The good news is that I’m not growing paranoid in my old age.’
‘The tail? Are you sure?’
‘Positive this time. I’ve just passed the Fischmarkt. Could you contact Ops Room and ask for a marked car to be on standby down at the junction of Grosse Elbestrasse and Kaistrasse? It’s quiet enough down there for us to pull them over and have a chat.’
‘I’ll do it now. But I’m coming down too.’ She hung up before Fabel had a chance to answer. He continued to head west. Again there was no sign of the VW on his tail. They had been stopped at the traffic lights and had obviously decided to use the opportunity to open up a little space between them and Fabel’s car.
He was on St Pauli Hafenstrasse when he saw it again, three or four cars back. These guys were good. Or they had help. Fabel began to wonder about what could have been attached to his car during his guided tour of the Pharos.
Anna called him on his cellphone. ‘The uniform guys are in position.’
‘Good. Chummy is still on my tail. I’m on Hafenstrasse — could you tell the uniform unit to be ready to pull him over?’
‘Sure. I’ll be there myself in a couple of minutes.’
Fabel hung up and checked his mirror. There was only one car now between him and the big VW. He thought he could see the outlines of two men through the darkened glass.
‘Let’s make this interesting,’ he said to himself under his breath. He spotted a narrow cobbled roadway off the main carriageway. It led to the other side of the riverside buildings and the water’s edge. This was an access way that no normal traffic would use. The opposite lane was clear of oncoming traffic, so Fabel swung across to the left without indicating and slammed on his brakes, pulling into a parking bay at the edge of the water. The car behind drove past, the driver blasting his horn at Fabel’s failure to indicate. He saw the VW thunder past the road end too: either the driver felt he could not make the sudden turn or was trying to convince Fabel that he was not really following him.
Fabel called Anna. ‘The Tiguan has just passed me. I didn’t give him an alternative. Tell the uniform unit he’s heading their way and to pull him over. I’ll be right behind him. If he’s pulled over or double-backed, I’ll let you know.’
He had just begun to twist around in his seat to start reversing back out onto the main road when he saw a four-by-four hurtling towards him. The car had only just registered in Fabel’s brain when it slammed into the back of Fabel’s BMW. He was thrown violently forward, only to be caught painfully by the inertia reel of his seat belt.
‘Bastard!’ he shouted into the rear-view mirror. He slammed on the brakes and undid his seat belt. He tried to work out what had happened. He was not sure, but he thought that the four-by-four was another make. Not the same car that had been following him. Two cars?
At least that made things easier in one way: he could detain the driver for careless driving, or on suspicion of drunk driving. He twisted round to see the four-by-four reversing back from the impact. There was the ugly sound of grinding metal as it did so and a tinny clang as something from the rear of Fabel’s car hit the cobbles of the wharf-side roadway. He could see it was not the VW: this vehicle was a Land Rover.
Fabel had just reached for his door handle when the Land Rover smashed into the back of his car again. This time he was thrown forward without the restraint of his seat belt and his chest slammed painfully against the steering wheel, forcing a pulse of air from his lungs. Winded, he gasped for breath, his body screaming for oxygen. Between desperate gasps, he fumbled to free his service automatic from its holster. Another impact. The SIG-Sauer automatic jumped from his tremulous fingers and fell into the footwell. He turned again in his seat. The Land Rover was reversing away fast. Fabel felt faint and sick from lack of oxygen and his chest hurt with every breath, but he desperately sought to make sense of his situation. He reached for his phone. In the rear-view mirror he saw the car’s huge dark bulk loom at him as it slammed once more into the rear of his BMW. But this impact was different. This time the engine of the Land Rover screamed as the driver floored the accelerator.
Fabel realised what was happening. The bastard was trying to push him off the wharf and into the river.
He instinctively pushed the footbrake to the floor. A useless exercise, he realised immediately, so he slammed the BMW into reverse and pushed back against the four-by-four. It was an unequal struggle and his tyres squealed and smoked as they spun impotently on the smooth cobbles.
He had to get out. He had to get out before the car went over the edge. But he was on the wrong side of the car, the water side. He stared wildly at the grille of the Land Rover, which completely filled his rear-view mirror. Filled Fabel’s universe. Fabel had just decided to risk making the jump when he felt suddenly weightless, and realised that his car had gone over the edge.
There was another impact, this time as the car hit the surface of the water and Fabel was thrown around in the metal confines of his car. Everything went dark and for a moment he thought he had passed out, until he realised, as the passenger cabin of his car filled with cold, oily, dark water, that he was sinking to the bottom of the River Elbe.
Chapter Thirty
He had found out her name remarkably easily. Getting around the encryption had not been difficult. It had taken Roman less than half a day to decode and transfer the information.
Meliha Yazar.
The woman he had seen in the cafe had been Meliha Yazar. Roman felt a profound sadness at the idea that such a beautiful woman would now be dead. So would he be, soon.
He had stopped hating Meliha for leaving the phone for him to find. With that act — which he now felt was not as random as it had first seemed, maybe she had seen him, recognised something in him — she had given him a great gift, for now Roman knew something about himself that he had not known before. He was brave. He had always thought of himself as cowardly, but now he realised that he was not afraid of dying. They would kill him, but before they did he would make sure that the information he had, that she had entrusted to him with that simple act in the cafe, would be passed on to the policeman Fabel and others. Roman realised that sending the information by email would never work. He recognised the sophistication of their expertise and the scope of their technical resources. He genuinely admired some of their work. Truly creative.
But they were dangerous. The first thing they would do when they traced Roman would be to wipe out his email traffic and blogging presence. To silence his electronic singing.
He also knew that he could not simply rely on Fabel, because the chances were he would soon be dead too. Roman and Fabel both represented the outer radiations of a spidering spread of knowledge that had to be contained. A circle that had to be closed.
But that was in the real world. And Roman existed in more than the real world. He knew the truth and the falsity of their fantasy of a digital otherworld. It existed, but it was not somewhere you could go unless you accepted the total death of the ego. A soulless shadow of reality. He knew. He had spent so much of his young life there.
He finished decrypting the files. And there it was: he had found the secret about the Pharos Project that they could neve
r allow to be known. They had been mad to think that they could keep something like that hidden from the world. But, there again, the Big Lie was always the most enduring, the easiest to sustain.
As soon as he had finished transferring the file to the various formats he wanted, Roman went around his apartment, opening the curtains. He struggled with a couple of the half-light windows but managed to get them open and allow some air into the apartment.
Then he went out.
It was sunny. The first really sunny day of the year. The Wilhelmsburg street was full of noise after the quiet of his apartment. He thought about the Albanians who lived below him who had not really been noisy; it had been Roman who had been intolerant simply because he had been unable to remove himself that one step further from mankind and the real world. There had, Roman realised, been people just like him throughout history. The medieval monks who chose the austerity of a monastic cell and the virtual reality of religion; the ancient philosophers who hid in caves or barrels and commented on the human condition from which they had disconnected.
It took him a long time to walk into town. But he had been determined to walk. It meant that every now and then he had to lean against a wall to catch his breath, and he sat down every time the opportunity presented itself on a municipal bench or, on one occasion, even on a lidded waste bin.
He saw the way others looked at him. But today Roman did not care. Today he had a mission to fulfil, a purpose that was, for once, not all about him. He went to the DeutschePost office first and bought five padded envelopes, dropped a memory stick and a handwritten note into each. He paused for a moment before he let the envelopes slip from his grasp and into the mail chute; in that moment, he thought of Meliha, the woman in the cafe, the woman behind the truth. He hoped that somehow, somewhere, she would be aware of what he was doing for her.
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