The Ghosts of Altona

by Craig Russell

Fabel decided to call it a day. He was tired and hungry and Susanne would be expecting him.

  However, one of his instincts beckoned. Something urged him to give up his methodical process and go right to the back of the rack. He was leaving and it did no harm for him to see if the paintings at the back were the same kind of stuff as those at the front. There was also the suspicion that here, in the secret vaults of Traxinger’s creative consciousness, may be some greater truth about the artist that could perhaps lead Fabel to his killer.

  The last sliding unit was much heavier and it took Fabel more effort to pull out. The reason was that instead of two separate upper and lower trays, a single double-height tray held a massive canvas draped in a cloth. As he pulled it out, he could see, close-up, one exposed corner of the painting. Traxinger had monogrammed the picture rather than signed it and the monogram he had used was an ornate interweaving of his initials wreathed in ivy and acanthus leaves and flowers. It was exactly the same as the design he had had tattooed above his heart, and Fabel hadn’t seen it used on any of the other paintings. Maybe this painting, too, was close to the artist’s heart.

  Fabel had to go to the far end of the storeroom to get a stepladder, which he used to reach the top of the painting and ease the protective cloth up and off the canvas. Climbing back down, the cloth gathered into an untidy bundle under his arm, he stood back to look at the painting, illuminated by the angled ceiling spotlight.

  He took out his cell phone and once more called Anna.

  ‘Can you meet me back at Traxinger’s studio?’ he asked. ‘Sorry to be a pain, but I’ve found another connection that doesn’t make any sense.’

  Anna agreed to come straight away and Fabel hung up.

  Afterwards he stood as if hypnotized by the painting. It was a nude of a pale, breathtakingly beautiful young woman with a blaze of rich auburn and red hair. The woman stood in a graveyard, an arch of ivy and acanthus both framing her naked body and reaching threateningly towards it. Her eyes were bright emerald and held the viewer locked in a cold gaze.

  This, Fabel realized, had been Traxinger’s masterpiece. His secret masterpiece.

  Before turning and going to advise the uniformed officer on guard duty that Chief Commissar Wolff would be arriving soon, Fabel stood for a while longer, gazing at the beautiful face captured in the painting.

  Monika Krone’s face.

  36

  The Running Woman was blonde, lithe and pretty. She had her hair tied back from her face in a ponytail that swung and flicked at the air as she ran with the carefree buoyancy of youth and vigour. Her legs were sleek, toned and tanned, her backside full but firm, breasts immobile in a sports bra beneath Lycra. She was the only runner who took this path, the one that ran past the back of the house. He would see her running by at the same time every day, her eyes focused on the path ahead, the world shut out by the earbuds of the MP3 player fastened to her waistband. Frankenstein could almost have set his watch by her, but there was one, always seemingly random, variation to her routine each time. The path ran through the most heavily wooded part of the Stadtpark, walled in and shadowed by the trees. It then emerged into a clearing, a small oasis of sunlight breaking the green velvet shadows of the forest. It was here that the path both turned ninety degrees and split into two for a distance of fifty or so metres before joining together again. One of the two paths again became shielded by trees, the other, running parallel, remained in the open for a while and passed immediately by the edge of the garden. Sometimes the running woman would take one path, other times the garden-side spur. There seemed no pattern to it, but simply decided on a whim.

  Frankenstein knew he should remain in the cellar, and he wanted to please his guardian, but it sometimes seemed to him as if he had been liberated from one confinement merely to be delivered into another. So, for an hour each day, at a time he knew it was unlikely that Zombie would call, he went up from the cellar and into the dust and gloom of the grey shell that had once been a home. Most of the time he would simply fold his bulk into a shadowed corner and ease a shutter open just wide enough for him to watch through the window, simply to be able to look out at the forest and the sky. A couple of times he had ventured all the way up to the attic and looked out through the unshuttered windows over to where cars and lorries made their way along the distant main road. But even this he knew was a risk: if someone appeared suddenly to snoop around the house, they would be between him and the cellar, left unlocked and open to prying. Not that the idea of snapping the neck of some snooper bothered him – it was just that he knew it would disappoint his guardian. So, generally, he would come up to use the toilet, go through to one of the ground floor rooms and watch the world through a crack in the shutters.

  It helped, but his hunger continued to grow, blossoming dark in the cellar like some black fungus.

  One night he had even decided to venture out of the house; sure that there was no one around, he made his way up to the front door and unlocked it with the key Zombie had left with him for emergencies. Frankenstein had stood in the overgrown garden and gazed up at the night sky. He knew he was safe. The darkness, except for the vault of stars above him, was complete, enveloping. His unnatural size, his brutal features, his heavy-boned bulk, all were hidden in the dark. From the world, from himself. In that dark moment, no one could see him and he could not see himself and suddenly, completely, he forgot his own monstrosity. He was Jochen Hübner again, not Frankenstein. He remembered the dream he had had when he had been near to death. His mother. His innocence.

  When he returned to the cellar, he looked in the small shaving mirror Zombie had given him. The spell was broken; the bitterness returned. He was a monster and always would be.

  It was the next day he had noticed the girl running. She was perfect. And like all of those born without flaw, she wore her perfection carelessly, thoughtlessly. It had been so long since he had had a woman, had drunk in their terror. Every day since his first sighting, Frankenstein had timed his visit upstairs to watch her run. And made plans.

  He so wanted not to disappoint his guardian. Herr Mensing had done so much for him and asked so little in return, but now that Frankenstein was out in the world, free, his hunger had grown so terribly strong. He knew it was an unacceptable risk and that his guardian would not be able to forgive him, but Frankenstein would take the woman. He would grab her and drag her into the cellar. He would be able to take his time there. And afterwards, of course, he would have to kill this one.

  But every time he thought it through, he realized they would find him, find his lair, perhaps even find his guardian. If Frankenstein did this, then everything Zombie had worked so hard for would be for nothing; his opportunity for revenge lost. And they would know where to start looking – the girl was clearly a creature of habit and if she went missing they would search the Stadtpark, the woods and, before long, the house.

  But it had been so long . . .

  It would be her decision, not his.

  The next day, instead of watching from the window, he went out of the house, leaving the door unlocked behind him. He made his way around the house and into the garden at the rear, doing his best to crouch as low to the ground as his giant bulk would allow, constantly checking that there was no one around. Some kind of old outbuilding stood at one corner of the garden. It was ruined – roofless, overgrown and crumbling, but it offered him some concealment. From here he could see the path running through the trees to where it forked. It would be her decision, not his. If she took the path that threaded back through the trees, he would leave her alone and never attempt this again. But if she took the other path . . .

  It was a sweet, tantalizing thought. If she made that random decision to take the path that ran past the house and his hiding place, he would grab her, silence her and take her into the darkness of the cellar and his cruelty.

  He felt a thrill the instant he saw her running through the dapples of sunlight between the thick trees and heading towards the bend and
fork in the path. Two possibilities, two choices, two completely, drastically different futures awaited her; and it would all come down to the most casual of decisions. Frankenstein felt himself stirring in anticipation. He could hear her expensive sports shoes on the path; she was only a matter of metres away from the fork.

  Do it, he silently willed her to turn towards the house. Do it and see what waits for you. She was nearly there. The smallest part of her brain, the briefest fluttering of neural activity, would set her on one course or another; would take her away from him or would bring her to him. But if she chose the spur that ran past him, he would awaken every neuron, every pain receptor, every part of her brain.

  Do it . . .

  The running woman approached the fork in the path, her strides even. Right or left. Light or dark. Life or death.

  She reached the fork. Frankenstein felt something surge up from deep inside him. The anticipation was now unbearable. Without breaking step, she made her choice.

  She took the spur that would bring her right to him.

  He readied himself. There was no one anywhere he could see, but he would have to make sure she didn’t have a chance to scream or make much noise. He had become the perfect predator and his taking of her would be as quick and quiet as a shark closing its jaws on prey and swiftly dragging it under the silencing water.

  He crouched down further, losing her from sight but focusing on the rhythmic beat of her shoes on the path. She was nearly there.

  Frankenstein prepared to leap and grab her as she passed.

  Someone laid a hand on his shoulder.

  He snapped around, ready to attack. The painfully thin, pale face of his guardian stared back at him. Zombie held Hübner’s gaze and silently shook his head. There was no anger, no disappointment in Zombie’s expression, just a sad concern. In that moment, Frankenstein saw once more how Zombie looked at him: as if trying to understand, seeing him as a person, not a monster. Perhaps even as a friend. In the same moment Frankenstein also realized how close he had come to ruining everything. He nodded his huge head and sank back into the undergrowth and behind the fractured wall of the outbuilding, gently pulling Zombie with him.

  He heard the woman’s footfalls grow louder, more inviting, then fade as she ran past them and on, back to the life she knew, unaware of the future she had nearly known.

  *

  Back in the cellar, there was no anger, no reproach. Zombie simply asked why Hübner had risked everything they had worked for; why he had ignored Zombie’s instructions.

  ‘This whole house is lying empty,’ Frankenstein answered. ‘With so much space above the ground, I don’t understand why I have to stay down here in the dark all the time.’

  ‘The risk of you being seen is too high. Even with the shutters closed, there would always be a chance someone could see a chink of light. All of Hamburg is looking for you, Jochen. Your picture is all over the place.’

  ‘I know. It’s just that I saw that bitch every day. Running. It’s been so long . . .’

  ‘I know. But there’ll be plenty of time for that. You’ll get what you want soon enough.’ Zombie paused, frowning. Frankenstein thought it odd to see the wrinkling of skin usually pulled taut on his almost fleshless skull. ‘You know you can leave any time you want,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing I could do to stop you. I wouldn’t even try.’

  ‘You freed me,’ said Hübner.

  ‘Exactly. There’s no prison around you any more. You could take off at any time, under the cover of night.’

  ‘I owe you. Not just for getting me out. I will do what you ask, because I said I would. I’ll do right by you because you did right by me.’

  ‘You know that I probably won’t be able to help you afterwards, don’t you?’ said Zombie. ‘They’ll have me by then. You’ll have to do what you have to do on your own. But I won’t give up this place. You’ll be safe here because I won’t tell them about it, but they’ll find out sooner or later. They’ll check.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I want to give you something. You deserve it.’

  ‘You’ve done enough for me. I’m sorry I nearly let you down.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t, so forget it. This is a bonus.’ Zombie handed Frankenstein two photographs. Both were slightly out of focus, clearly having been taken with a zoom lens from a considerable distance. They both showed the faces of women: one was of a woman in her forties, clearly beautiful, with dark hair; the second was of a younger woman with auburn-red hair.

  ‘My gift to you,’ said Zombie. ‘When you have done what I have asked, I’ll tell you where to find them.’

  ‘Who are they?’ Frankenstein looked up from the photographs.

  ‘I know you have a grudge against Principal Chief Commissar Jan Fabel. That’s his woman and his daughter . . .’

  37

  Fabel had found fifteen other paintings stored at the back of Traxinger’s storeroom, all featuring Monika Krone as the central figure. It became clear that if there really was such a thing as a muse, then Monika Krone had been Detlev Traxinger’s. But, as canvas after canvas was pulled out, Fabel realized he wasn’t looking at an artist’s inspiration: he was looking at an obsession. These paintings had not been created for display or appreciation; their motivation was something much darker, more compelling and personal. Secretive.

  Many of the paintings had simply been slightly different versions of the graveyard scene. These alternative versions had been no better nor worse executed than the one Traxinger had stowed at the very back of his collection, and the variations were barely noticeable – as if the artist had been trying to capture something very particular and had not been entirely satisfied that he had succeeded. Fabel could see that while Monika remained constant, with only the minutest alteration in the tilt of her head, the angle of a pale thigh or the brightness of the moonlight, there were slight changes in the background details.

  In contrast, the non-graveyard paintings were all wildly different: Monika in period costumes, one strangely disquieting one of Monika against a background of writhing vegetation, like a moving jungle, with a whip in her gloved hands. Fabel had decided he would come back later and examine the paintings in greater detail. In the meantime he took a picture of the graveyard nude with his cell phone before calling the Presidium to get a forensic photographer to document them all.

  *

  At eleven the following morning, Fabel assembled the whole team in the Murder Commission’s briefing room. He had first emailed a report to each of them on what he had discovered at the gallery, including a photograph of the graveyard painting featuring the nude with Monika Krone’s face, asking for each of them to start following a specific line of inquiry. But the significance of two major homicide investigations converging – added to a possible connection to the child-murderer Jost Schalthoff – was of such magnitude that the whole team had to be briefed together.

  Fabel had instructed that both inquiry boards – the Traxinger and the Krone cases – be wheeled into the briefing room and set side by side. When he entered the room, Fabel was taken aback to see the print that had hung in Schalthoff’s apartment, sitting propped up against the metal support of the incident board.

  ‘I didn’t think we’d ever be able to locate that,’ he said, turning to Anna. ‘I imagined it would have been disposed of along with the rest of Schalthoff’s furniture. However did you manage to track it down?’

  ‘It was in the evidence store,’ said Anna.

  ‘Evidence? But why would a picture be kept as evidence?’

  Anna held Fabel’s gaze, trying but failing to hide her awkwardness. ‘Blood spatter,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Oh,’ said Fabel. He looked again at the print but could see no hint of his two-year-old blood on it. But he knew that blood spatter could be aerosol, hardly visible to the naked eye, and simply because the picture had been tested didn’t mean Fabel’s blood had been found on it.

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, whatever the
reason, I’m glad we have it. Anna, could we have some expert look at it to tell us anything we can get on where, how and who printed it? I don’t know if we can find out if it was a one-off or part of a run, but that information would be very useful if we can get it.’

  ‘Yes, Chef.’

  ‘Okay . . .’ Fabel addressed the entire team. ‘What we now seem to be looking at are two cases that may be connected, but are separated by fifteen years, with some possible, but so far unestablished connection to Jost Schalthoff, two years ago. Detlev Traxinger was murdered with an undiscovered weapon that we know was highly unusual and specialized. He was killed by a single upward strike with a long, thin-bladed weapon. Maybe a needle-file or something similar. Whoever killed him was confident and efficient.’

  ‘A professional hit?’ asked Nicola Brüggemann.

  ‘I doubt it. So far we have no motive for anyone to go to the effort and expense of hiring a professional killer. And most of all, contract killers don’t hang about the scene to set up tableaux. Whoever killed Traxinger wanted to make some kind of personal statement. In the meantime, let’s say the killing was professionally executed – it could possibly have been a pro or it could be someone who had been planning and rehearsing for some time.’ Fabel pointed to a large glossy photograph, taken in the forensics lab to where it had been moved, of the nude portrait of Monika Krone. ‘And this is our connection to the Krone inquiry. A woman murdered fifteen years ago turns up in a murder two days ago.’

  ‘It could simply be a coincidence,’ said Anna. ‘We know that she did pose as a model on occasion at the University of Fine Arts in Uhlenhorst, and we know that Traxinger was a student there. Maybe he painted the picture back then and the only connection is that Monika was the anonymous model who posed for his class. Maybe she made extra cash as an artist’s model outside the uni – and their relationship was strictly professional. Or maybe she was a friend of a friend. It could be a very tenuous connection.’