Fabel had no idea what the Turkish owner and his daughter would think he did for a living, if they even gave it a thought, but he guessed that a murder detective would be at the bottom of the list. That suited him too.
But today, this unlikely refuge was tarnished: as he had come into the café he had noticed one of the Polizei Hamburg’s posters in the window next to the door, Jochen Hübner’s grotesque face glaring out at him.
He tried to put it out of his head and, ordering a coffee, sat in his usual spot and watched the world slide past the window. Try as he might, the face of Frankenstein continued to haunt him. It chilled Fabel to think of a predator like Hübner unbound, in hiding, making plans.
An expensively dressed woman walked past on the street outside and their eyes met through the window for a second, then she was gone. He noted that he had found her instantly attractive: she had been dark-haired with blue eyes, just like Susanne. He had a thing for brunettes; always had. Why, he thought to himself, are we attracted to ‘types’? Why had he always felt drawn to dark-haired women more than redheads or the locally abundant blondes? Fabel had always had this theory that people work on the principle of archetypes: that individuals are seen, for superficial reasons, as belonging to a particular genus. In its most extreme, he had seen serial killers target victims for the most tenuous or superficial similarity. The deaths of Traxinger and Hensler seemed to be the same thing in reverse. They shared an obsession with redheads that, in turn, had stemmed from their obsession with Monika Krone. But they were the ones who had ended up dead.
He sighed in annoyance at himself: there he was again, despite his best efforts, thinking about the case in his set-aside time.
Where the hell was Hübner? There hadn’t been a single sighting since his escape. First Monika Krone’s body is found; Jochen ‘Frankenstein’ Hübner, one-time favourite suspect for Monika’s murder, escapes from Fuhlsbüttel prison; and since that escape, two men connected to the Monika Krone case are murdered. It was this chronology, this perfect syzygy of events, that gave Fabel a bad feeling. It reeked of cause and effect.
His thoughts were interrupted when his cell phone rang: it was Holger Brauner, the head of the forensics team.
‘We’ve isolated that “something” I was talking about. I could tell you that both victims had enough tranquillizer in them to knock out a horse, but you might think I was just being metaphorical.’
‘Holger, I don’t have time—’
‘Horse tranquillizer,’ Brauner said. ‘Xylazine hydrochloride, to be exact. It explains how they seem to have been killed without a struggle, or in Hensler’s case, how he allowed himself to be tied up and placed in a box without a struggle.’
‘You said both? Traxinger too?’
‘The wine glass – and what we were able to recover of the spilled wine – tested positive for xylazine. My guess is that he ingested some but not enough to flatten him. It can create a weird zombie-like state where you’re effectively out for the count but still on your feet. It would explain how Traxinger was killed with a single strike from the Empress Sisi-type weapon.’
‘So it doesn’t follow that he knew his attacker after all?’
‘That’s your province, Jan. I just do the chemistry.’
‘But would it sedate someone enough that they wouldn’t react to someone stabbing them?’
‘No problem. Like I say, it’s a very powerful central nervous system suppressor; vets use it on cattle and horses when they want to sedate them heavily but still keep them on their feet. Especially while they’re having dental work or when horses are being castrated. So yes – your painter guy wouldn’t have seen it coming. There is one other possibility, however . . .’
‘Oh?’
‘An overdose of xylazine, even a slight overdose, can bring on bradycardia and myocardial infarction. A heart attack. Maybe that’s what your killer was hoping for with Traxinger – and that it would be put down to natural causes – but ingestion wouldn’t work quickly or even that well. Could be that he realized he’d have to finish the job off with the blade.’
‘I doubt it. If he had wanted to cover up his tracks he wouldn’t have dragged the painting through from the storeroom. How easy would it be to get your hands on xylazine?’
‘Again, I wouldn’t know. It’s a restricted drug, so not that easy, but it isn’t really used illegally, except, bizarrely, in Puerto Rico where it’s known as the “zombie drug”. You certainly don’t get a high from it and God knows why anyone would want to use it recreationally. But to answer your question, I suppose if you had the right contacts, you wouldn’t find it too hard to get your hands on some.’
‘So do you think Hensler’s was slipped to him in a drink too?’
‘No . . . he was given a discrete dose, from the traces I’d say just enough to keep him under long enough to bury him. I found a puncture mark in his neck – done crudely and with enough time to cause bruising around it. Looks to me like it could have been done from behind. But that’s speculation on my part, not something I have enough evidence to put into the report.’
‘Okay. Thanks, Holger.’
‘There’s one more thing,’ said Brauner. ‘It may be nothing . . .’
‘What?’
‘You mentioned just now that the killer dragged the painting through to the studio from the storeroom. Well they didn’t – the only scratches on the floor were where the picture was adjusted, pushed into place. That was a very heavy frame on it and you would struggle to carry it all the way through. That means one of three things: either the killer was strong—’
‘Like Frankenstein Hübner . . .’
‘Like Frankenstein Hübner . . . The second option is that there were two or more people involved in the killing and they moved the painting between them. Or, the third option is that they used something in the studio to move the picture. So what we did was check everything. It’s a huge place and it’s taken until now to process it all.’
‘Just the headlines, Holger . . .’
‘Okay. The picture frame was covered in fingerprints and as you know, it’s very difficult to tell the new from the old; but there were smudges that suggested someone wearing gloves had handled it recently. Then we found a two-wheeler hand barrow right at the back of the studio, where it wasn’t normally kept, according to Frau Koetzing. My guess is that the barrow was used to shift the painting. We found no prints on it – and I mean no prints. Someone had taken a great deal of time to wipe it down, which doesn’t make sense if they were wearing gloves. Earlier in our sweep we had found an extraneous partial – an odd-shaped part of a thumbprint – on the reception hall door. It’s entirely possible that the killer was wearing latex gloves and they tore a little without him noticing when he was holding the picture frame. Then, when he was putting the hand trolley at the back of the studio, he saw the tear and felt the need to completely wipe down the trolley, to be safe.’
‘So you think the partial is our guy?’
‘It’s a stretch, but it’s a possibility. The problem is we haven’t got much of a pattern to go on, but we’re doing our best to see if we can get a match. Even if we do, we won’t have enough comparable points for it to stand up in court.’
‘Okay, thanks, Holger. By the way, make Jochen Hübner’s prints your first port of call.’
48
Even after two decades living in the city, Fabel could still be surprised at how quickly, driving out from central Hamburg, you found yourself in a rural environment. It had only taken him and Anna just over twenty minutes to get to Tatenberg, officially still part of the Bergedorf quarter and Metropolitan Hamburg, but a century or two distant in feel.
The house sat next to the Dove Elbe, a tranquil spur of Hamburg’s lifeblood river. Most of the area was given over to one of Hamburg’s nature reserves and everything here was green: thick swathes of broad-leaved trees, hedgerows and gently rolling fields, all dotted with ponds, small lakes and with the sedate Dove Elbe running through it.
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‘It’s beautiful here,’ said Anna as they drove along the narrow ribbon of road on the Tatenberger Deich, past the yacht marina.
‘Yes it is,’ said Fabel. ‘But I wouldn’t have thought it would have been your kind of thing. I thought you were into the whole bar and club scene in the Kiez. A city girl, through and through.’
‘Maybe I’m getting old. Like you.’
‘You should be more respectful, Frau Wolff.’
‘Respectful my arse. Although I’ve heard there’s a rumour that you might be on the way up. Capo de Capo.’
‘Oh?’ said Fabel, although he knew very well the rumour to which she referred. ‘And the expression is Capo di tutti capi. I’m going to start recruiting officers with broader cultural references.’
‘It’s true though, isn’t it? You’re going to be offered Leading Criminal Director when van Heiden officially retires?’
‘No one has approached me about it at all, Anna. It’s just people speculating. Like you said, a rumour, that’s all.’
‘But it’s not groundless. Everyone knows you’re the best choice to lead the whole State Criminal Office. Frankly, I don’t see you as a paper-shuffler and pen-pusher. Are you going to take it?’
‘Anna . . .’ said Fabel, annoyed, ‘I’ve told you – no one has asked me. And Berger over at Organized Crime is as good a candidate as me—’
‘He’s an arsehole,’ said Anna contemptuously. ‘And he’s from Frankfurt. He’s an arsehole from Frankfurt . . . is that tautological?’
‘What is this thing you’ve got about Frankfurt, Anna?’
‘Haven’t you ever been there?’ She turned and looked out of the passenger window at the passing trees and the sparkle of water between them. ‘They make Parisians seem warm and welcoming. You’d make more eye contact at an Asperger’s self-help meeting.’
‘Anyway,’ said Fabel. ‘Being an arsehole doesn’t diminish your abilities. Berger’s very capable.’
‘You’re more than his equal.’
‘As an officer or an arsehole?’
‘The former always, the latter occasionally. You haven’t answered my question: will you take it?’
‘Ah, here we are . . .’ said Fabel in a ‘saved-by-the-bell’ manner. He turned into the drive that led to a long, low, one-and-a-half storey thatch-roofed Reetdachhaus of the typical, traditional rural North German style.
‘Very nice,’ said Fabel as they pulled up on the drive outside the house, which was surrounded by a large, well-tended garden and a wall of trees. ‘Maybe I should have stuck with the academic world after all.’
A man in camel-coloured moleskin trousers, a dark green sweater and checked shirt appeared at the door and waited for them. From first impressions, Fabel estimated that Professor Thorsten Rohde, although having retired from the Uni Hamburg the year before, could only have been in his late fifties or early sixties. His hair was grey-blond and combed back from a broad-browed, long face and an aquiline nose that gave him the look of an aristocrat rather than an academic.
‘Thanks for agreeing to meet with us,’ said Fabel after he had introduced Anna and they shook hands. ‘And sorry for the intrusion.’
‘Not at all – I welcome the company. My wife has gone to . . .’ He paused, frowning. ‘She’s gone out but she’ll be back soon. Anyway, I hope I can help, Herr Fabel. This is about Monika Krone? I heard that they discovered her body. After all this time. It’s tragic.’
‘That it is, Herr Professor,’ said Fabel. ‘But there are some other things, possible connections, we are looking at.’
‘Oh, sorry . . .’ said Rohde, suddenly aware they were all still standing at the threshold. ‘Please come in.’
The interior of the cottage was surprisingly modern, the decor bright to make the most of the light from the small, thatch-shadowed windows. The living room was large and open plan to the kitchen, whitewashed wooden columns breaking up the space. Fabel noticed a large American-style refrigerator in the kitchen, covered with more than a dozen handwritten yellow and orange sticker notes.
Rohde invited them to sit on a soft-toned cambric-covered sofa. A beech coffee table in front of them was piled with books, most of which looked like academic publications and all of which seemed to deal with Gothic literature or studies. Fabel noticed Rohde’s was the author name on several. From the cover of one Boris Karloff, made up as Frankenstein’s monster, stared obliquely and menacingly at them.
‘May I offer you tea . . . coffee?’ said Rohde.
‘No,’ said Fabel, once they were all seated. ‘But thank you. We won’t take up too much of your time, Herr Professor. We’re looking into a specific group of friends, fellow students who shared an interest in Gothic literature and attended your extra-curricular lectures on Gothic fiction. They were known informally by other students as the “Gothic set”.’
Rohde laughed. ‘Everyone I come into contact with can be called that. And the students who went out of their way to attend my elective lectures all had a specific interest in the Gothic.’
‘But this would be a group including Monika Krone,’ said Anna. ‘You remember Monika Krone?’
‘Of course I remember her. And what happened to her. The police came to talk to me back then as well. In any case, Monika Krone was not the kind of student – or woman – one forgets.’ Rohde suddenly seemed to remember something and made to stand up. ‘Where are my manners? Can I offer you something – tea or coffee?’
‘You already—’
‘No thanks, Herr Professor . . .’ Fabel cut Anna off. Rohde’s early retirement and the score of handwritten notes on the refrigerator suddenly made sense. ‘We won’t keep you long. Do you remember the crowd Monika went around with?’
‘Some more than others. They were more deeply into the Gothic than the rest. By that I mean not just the literature, but the history, the leading figures, the architecture, the philosophy, the culture – for many that’s what the Gothic is: not just a literary movement, a culture. It’s a way of seeing life.’
‘Seems to me more like a way of seeing death – but would you say Monika and her friends were particularly into Gothic culture?’
‘I wouldn’t say all. Some of them – a hard core, if you like, including Monika – certainly took it very seriously indeed. Like the others, they had a very deep intellectual interest in the movement, the literature, but for them it went beyond that and into their way of looking at life. Or living it.’
‘So this hard core comprised mainly literature students?’
‘Actually, no. Not exclusively. Obviously, the majority of those who came to my lectures were literature students – there were those who were studying German Lit and were interested in the German Schauerroman development of Gothic fiction, then there were my own Gothic Studies students and students of English, who were looking to boost their understanding of the genre. But I got students from all disciplines and not just the liberal arts – including a lot of science and medical students.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought that it would have attracted many from the sciences.’
‘That’s where you’d be wrong. Gothic fiction is inseparably connected to the history of science. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein is a science-fiction novel as much as anything else. You have to remember that Victor Frankenstein animated his monster by using electricity, which in Shelley’s time was the biggest area of scientific study and moving from the theoretical to the practical realm. Just as today there are writers speculating about the moral and existential threats posed by computing and artificial intelligence, in Mary Shelley’s day people had the same worries about the magic of electricity. It’s ironic that the real Castle Frankenstein, which inspired her to use the name, sits above Darmstadt, which later would become the very first city to have a faculty of electrical engineering at its university. You could also say Frankenstein was the first novel to raise bio-ethical issues. So it’s no surprise that there were science students interested in the Gothic. But to answer your questio
n, the group that seemed to be associated with Monika came from an unusually broad range of disciplines.’
‘There was a medical student in particular,’ said Fabel. ‘A Dane by the name of Paul Mortensen – do you remember him?’
Rohde pursed his lips as he thought. ‘Sorry, can’t say I do.’
‘How well did you know Monika Krone?’ asked Anna.
‘Well. Or at least as well as she would allow anyone to get to know her. I was her tutor and had her in my formal classes as well as her having an almost hundred per cent attendance at the elective lectures. As an educator, the names and faces of most of your students over the years fade into the background, but there are the few bright stars – the ones who stand out and whom you remember. Monika was one such star.’
‘Professor Rohde . . .’ Fabel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘I hope you understand that I have to ask you this: were you ever in any kind of intimate relationship with Monika Krone?’
Rohde smiled, a little sadly and resignedly. ‘I knew you would ask me that. Yes, I had an intimate relationship with her. But not in the way you mean, not sexual or romantic. And it’s very difficult to put into words . . .’ Rohde thought for a moment, drawing a breath. ‘Listen, Herr Fabel, I have devoted my life to studying and teaching the Gothic movement. Every aspect of it. I want you to imagine that I am an archaeologist, dealing with dusty artefacts and obsessed with, say, the Mycenaeans. Imagine what it would be like for that archaeologist to meet, not buried bones, but a living, breathing person who had lived through that time, who had known Agamemnon, who could give a first-person perspective. It was like that with Monika. I have never encountered another student, or anyone else, who so perfectly understood the Gothic, who so perfectly embodied the Gothic. You could say that I learned more from her than she from me.’
The Ghosts of Altona Page 24
