The Ghosts of Altona

by Craig Russell

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, it sounds like you were a little in love with her.’

  ‘Perhaps. More fascinated, more in awe of her. And, truth be told, a little afraid of her.’

  ‘Afraid?’

  ‘Monika Krone had a presence – not just physical, but intellectual and emotional – that is very hard to describe. I said she embodied the Gothic for me, well, she did. Hers was a very dark presence.’

  They talked about Monika for a while longer, Rohde explaining more about the personality of his long-dead student. After a while, they moved on to the other members of the Gothic set.

  ‘I do remember Werner Hensler was involved,’ said Rohde. ‘He most certainly was someone who was in love with Monika. I was shocked to read about his death. Werner was a pleasure to teach and he had a real passion for Gothic literature – Poe, in particular. But he made the fatal mistake of comparing himself to his hero – measuring his writing against Poe’s – which was always going to lead him to disappointment. I read one of his novels not that long ago. It was tripe. I got the feeling that he had sold out believing he was capable of less than he really was.’

  ‘What about Tobias Albrecht, the architect?’

  ‘I remember there was an architecture student, but can’t recall the name. He was what people used to call “devilishly handsome” and clearly saw himself as some kind of Byronesque character – you know mad, bad and dangerous to know.’ Rohde used the expression in English. ‘I got the impression his involvement was more about the usual student search for a style or an identity, rather than any real interest in the Gothic form.’

  ‘Was he involved with Monika?’

  Rohde laughed. ‘Of course he was. They all were at one time or another, I think. And those that weren’t desperately wanted to be. Like I say, Monika was a dark presence – but a dark presence that formed the heart of the group. I actually wonder if some of them really were that interested in Gothic literature or were simply trying to ingratiate themselves with Monika.’

  ‘Do you remember the painter Detlev Traxinger being part of the set?’

  ‘Yes I do.’ Rohde frowned, suddenly perturbed. ‘I forget . . . didn’t I read something about his death too?’

  ‘I’m afraid you did.’

  ‘So that’s what this is all about. Not just Monika?’

  ‘We’re investigating possible connections, yes. That’s why it’s important that you try to remember anyone else in particular that was part of that set.’

  Rohde laughed, bitterly. ‘I have no problem remembering stuff from back then. It’s this morning, yesterday or last week I struggle with. There was someone else . . .’ He frowned. ‘It’ll come to me – eventually.’

  ‘Was this someone who was involved with Monika?’

  ‘No . . . damn it, I wish I could remember his name. He was one of those poor peripheral people. You know, the hangers-on and wannabes whom no one really notices. That’s probably why I can’t remember too much about him. Maybe he was the Danish medical student you mentioned.’

  ‘I understand that Gothic literature is a serious subject – academically, I mean,’ said Fabel. ‘But what I can’t get my head around is why a group of young people would become so obsessed with it. I mean, especially Monika Krone, Traxinger, Hensler and Albrecht. They were all in their early- to mid-twenties. Why should the literature of death and darkness be so appealing to such young people with such bright futures?’

  ‘That’s where you’ve got it wrong, Herr Fabel. The Gothic belongs to the young and vital. It’s all around us in teenage culture – Goth fashions, death-metal music . . . Teenagers and young people flooding to watch movies and television series about vampires and zombies.’

  ‘But we’re not talking about teenagers,’ said Anna. ‘We’re talking about serious students in their middle twenties.’

  ‘Gothic literature is and always has been the literature of youth. Mary Shelley was still a teenager, only nineteen, when she wrote Frankenstein. Her husband, the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, who was her model for Victor Frankenstein, sang loud and sweet but was silenced when he was only twenty-nine. Polidori, who wrote the first real vampire story, died when he was twenty-five. Even Byron, who blazed so bright that he scorched all who got too close, eventually burned out at only thirty-six. The Romantic and Gothic movements speak with the irrepressible and vibrant nihilism of youth.’

  ‘You don’t think a youthful obsession with death is unhealthy?’ asked Anna.

  Rohde smiled. ‘When you’re young, your vigour allows you to see Death – with a capital “D” – as a concept, as something that exists in its own right. Something you can romanticize about . . . even personify. But as you get older, death becomes a much more lowercase affair. You begin to realize that just like the dark doesn’t exist but is merely the absence of light, death doesn’t exist and is simply the absence of life, and that makes it all the more terrifying. It is no longer something you conceptualize, no longer a presence but an absence. It becomes an event. An endpoint just around the corner. Death becomes a hell of a lot less romantic the closer you get to it.’ He turned to Fabel. ‘I’m sure, with your experience, you’ll agree.’

  ‘My experience?’ Fabel was taken aback for a moment.

  ‘I mean as a homicide investigator. You encounter death, or at least have to deal with it as part of your day-to-day routine. What did you think I was referring to?’

  ‘Nothing. I see what you mean and yes, death holds no romance for me.’

  ‘And as for a group of young people, riven by sexual rivalries and jealousies, to be held together by the Gothic is far from new. As everyone knows, Polidori wrote The Vampyre in the same place, the Villa Diodati, and at the same time as Mary Shelley started Frankenstein. Both at the instigation of Byron. And everyone at the Villa Diodati was trying to get into everyone else’s bed. And if there’s one thing that the Gothic’s about as much as death, it’s sex. It seethes with sex.’

  ‘Sex and death,’ said Fabel thoughtfully. ‘It’s a potent mix.’

  ‘As I’m sure you’ve encountered in your work, dealing with people who have killed for physical gratification, the lines between sex and death can blur. Venereal diseases haunted both the Romantic and Gothic genres. One could argue that vampirism was a metaphor for syphilis. One could even extend the argument that HIV/AIDS was an epidemiological revival of the Romantic Gothic. Have you noticed how zombieism and vampirism have dominated television and movies for more than two decades? Sex, infection and death. The Gothic is still with us, will always be with us, as long as sex and death remain part of the human experience.’

  Fabel reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out the photograph he had brought with him. He handed the photograph to Rohde, who placed it on the table while he searched for his glasses.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said when he returned with a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles balanced halfway down the aquiline nose. ‘I’m always forgetting where I put them.’ He examined the photograph.

  ‘Does that mean anything to you?’ asked Fabel. ‘Both Werner Hensler and Detlev Traxinger had these Gothic-styled tattoos on their chests, just above the heart.’

  Rohde looked across at Fabel. ‘Is this . . .’

  ‘It’s a post-mortem picture, yes.’

  Rohde examined it again, then shook his head slowly. ‘The initials mean nothing to me, nor the overall design. But this motif – the interlacing ivy and acanthus – that maybe has some symbolism.’

  ‘Like what? I’ve heard that the acanthus was associated with death.’

  ‘That’s not strictly true,’ said Rohde. ‘The acanthus leaf is the most common motif used in Corinthian and Greek architecture. A lot of Roman too. You’ll see it used in funerary symbolism too – but it doesn’t mean death, it means the survival of death. Life beyond the grave, if you like. Even immortality.’

  ‘And the ivy?’ asked Anna.

  ‘That too has a similar symbolism. Immortality, endurance – particul
arly enduring love or friendship. If you’re asking me if I feel this tattoo could be linked to the so-called Gothic set, then yes – I can’t imagine two more Gothic symbols than ivy and acanthus.’

  Fabel nodded, processing what Rohde had said. ‘Can you remember the name of the other person?’

  ‘What other person?’ Rohde looked puzzled.

  ‘You told us there was someone else involved with the so-called Gothic set, but you couldn’t remember their name.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Wait a minute . . . there was someone else. Yes, yes, I remember now. There was a male student, not one of mine, not literature. Damn it, what was his name? That’s the problem: he was one of the orbiting planets, minor planets, and not one of the stars at the centre. You know, the kind of poor soul who desperately wants to be part of something but is condemned to the sidelines. He was always at the extra-curricular lectures I gave. I really got the impression that he was there simply to be near Monika – although he did have a real interest in Gothic influences in film, that kind of thing.’ Rohde’s eyes brightened and he snapped his fingers emphatically. ‘Mesling . . . Messing . . . something like that. And he was a Sociology student. That was it.’

  *

  Rohde saw them both to the door of the cottage.

  ‘This is a really nice place you’ve got here, Herr Professor.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s quiet here, which suits me. I eke out my university pension by writing the odd piece on the Gothic for periodicals. At the moment I’m writing an autobiography on Ann Radcliffe, one of the very first ever Gothic novelists. You know her work?’

  Fabel shook his head.

  ‘I think you would enjoy her, Herr Fabel. Forensically, I mean. She was a great believer in the rational resolution. Her stories revolved around supernatural goings-on that her investigators always exposed to have nothing at all to do with the supernatural but which had a rational, real world explanation.’

  ‘Just like Scooby-Doo . . .’ Anna said, smiling. Fabel shot her a warning look.

  ‘It’s really a pity you missed my wife,’ said Rohde, again frowning. ‘Where was it she said she was going? Anyway, she’ll be back soon.’

  Fabel shook Rohde’s hand. ‘Thank you for your help, Herr Professor.’

  *

  As they got into the car and Fabel started to drive off, he had to brake to allow through a Land Rover coming in from the drive. As she passed, the female driver eyed Fabel and Anna curiously, almost suspiciously.

  ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me . . .’ muttered Anna.

  ‘So that’s Frau Rohde,’ said Fabel as he moved off again. In his rear-view mirror he watched the woman make her way over to Rohde and kiss him on the cheek, then look again in Fabel’s direction, clearly asking her husband who had been visiting. She was at least fifteen years younger than her husband, well-dressed and attractive without being beautiful. She stood watching Fabel’s car make its way back to the main road, the late summer sun picking out bright highlights in her shoulder-length, rich auburn-red hair.

  49

  ‘Have you come to probe me for a second time?’ asked Anja Koetzing. Like the last time they had spoken, Traxinger’s business manager was dressed in a black skirt suit but this time her blouse was open-necked and when she again stood too close to Fabel, he could smell her scent, hot, musky and sweet. He laughed a little uncomfortably and stood back, feeling the heat in his neck and cheeks. Once more, Fabel found himself discomfited by his own reaction to her.

  ‘Oh I’m sorry,’ she said coyly. ‘I’ve made you blush. Do you know some psychologists consider that a blush is a “redirected erection”?’

  ‘Why do I feel I need a chaperone whenever I question you, Frau Koetzing? An armed chaperone?’

  ‘But you didn’t bring one, did you? Fair game, I say.’ She moved even closer.

  ‘Frau Koetzing . . .’ Fabel injected his tone with authority. ‘This is a serious matter. I am investigating the murder of your business partner and I would appreciate your proper attention and cooperation.’

  She laughed, her deep hazel eyes flashing darkly. ‘Anything you say, Herr Principal Chief Commissar. I was only playing with you. How can I help?’

  ‘I’d like to talk some more about Herr Traxinger. But I’d also like to have another look at his paintings.’

  ‘Sure. What do you want to know?’

  ‘Is there anything – anything – you can tell me about Traxinger’s private life?’

  ‘Detlev’s life was an open book – but as I’m sure you know, anyone whose life is an open book is hiding more than everyone else. He rejoiced in scandal and saw himself as some kind of bête noire of the artistic world. Truth is that rejoicing in a little scandal is good PR and goes a long way to boost sales. People buy the artist as much as the art. Underneath it all Detlev was as much a conformist as anyone else – just that he was conforming to the non-conformity that was expected of him, if you know what I mean.’

  Fabel nodded. ‘Have you heard of Tobias Albrecht?’

  ‘The architect? Of course I have.’

  ‘Did Herr Traxinger ever talk about him, or mention knowing him?’

  Koetzing thought for a moment then shook her head, red lips pursed. ‘I can’t say he ever did. Which was odd.’

  ‘Odd? Why?’

  ‘Because architectural practices are great buyers and renters of original art. I’ve got clients across Germany in the architectural sector, but not Albrecht and Partners. I just couldn’t get an appointment. I guessed that he didn’t like Detlev’s work so I let it go. And I can’t remember Detlev ever mentioning Albrecht.’

  ‘They were friends at university,’ said Fabel. ‘And I know that they crossed paths at arts-related functions, at least two or three times.’

  ‘Not any I was also at, I can tell you that. You telling me that Detlev knew Tobias Albrecht is complete news to me. I mean, I told Detlev I was chasing Albrecht and Partners for business. He didn’t pass any comment even then.’

  *

  They walked through to the gallery and storeroom side of the studio, Anja Koetzing leading the way. Fabel, despite his best efforts, found himself watching her body as she walked ahead of him. She was like a small cat: sleek, dark, sensually elegant. The truth was he didn’t like her flirting with him because he really was strongly attracted to her.

  ‘Here we are . . .’ Koetzing unlocked the door to the storeroom, leaned in and switched on the light. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you about some of the paintings.’

  Koetzing arched an eyebrow and smiled. ‘All this time have you just been trying to get me alone in a dark storeroom?’

  ‘Frau Koetzing . . .’ Fabel again tried to inject warning into his tone, but it sounded feeble.

  ‘Okay, okay . . . I’ll behave. Your virtue shall remain untarnished.’

  Fabel went to the back of the storeroom and pulled out the series of paintings featuring Monika Krone. The original painting, the one Fabel had found first, was no longer there but being examined by the forensics department, who were trying to work out roughly when it had been painted. The pictures that remained disturbed Fabel. There was some bright, cold cruelty that Traxinger had clearly sought to express in his depictions of Monika.

  ‘Why was Detlev Traxinger so obsessed with Monika Krone? Most of these works were done long after her death.’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. Like I told you, I didn’t see most of these paintings until you showed them to me. She appeared in a lot of his stuff I did see, but at that time I just assumed it was some sort of idealized redhead. I always knew he had a thing for redheads, I just didn’t know that it was more that he had a thing for one particular redhead. He had a muse I didn’t know about.’

  Fabel pulled out another of the larger canvases. Again it was Monika Krone, this time dressed in dark green velvet and what Fabel guessed to be seventeenth-century fashion. Her hair was still partly in the style of
that time, but snake-like strands of it, swept by wind, coiled and writhed their way free of pin and clasp. Her hands were sheathed in riding gloves and held a black, plaited-leather horsewhip gathered in loops. Again her eyes burned with the cold emerald fire that Traxinger had sought to capture in all of his paintings of her. He had signed the painting with the monogram DT, using the same design as the tattoo both he and Hensler had borne above their hearts. This time, however, he had also added a title, small and in dabs of black paint as if written with quill and ink, next to the monogram. It was difficult to read and Fabel leaned close to make it out.

  ‘La Quintrala . . .’ he said, stepping back to look up into the cold, cruel green gaze. ‘What does that mean?’

  Koetzing didn’t answer for a moment then said, ‘It’s Spanish. It was the nickname of Catalina de los Ríos y Lisperguer. She was a Chilean landowner in the time of Spanish colonial rule. In fact she became a symbol for all that was wrong with colonial rule.’

  Fabel turned to her. ‘You’re remarkably well informed . . .’

  Koetzing grinned and held up her smartphone, screen towards him. ‘No, I’m remarkably well connected to the internet.’ She examined the screen again, the smile fading. ‘It would appear that La Quintrala was a monster. Extremely beautiful, extremely clever, and extremely fucking crazy. According to this she was a female serial killer. Apparently she used that whip of hers to beat her . . .’ She frowned at the screen. ‘Her inquilinos . . .’