The Valkyrie Song

by Craig Russell

  ‘I’ll get right onto it,’ said Astrid, and she smiled broadly at Fabel.

  The first thing Fabel did when he got back to the Presidium was to phone Criminal Director van Heiden to approve the overtime for his team and the extra officers he would need to draft in. Van Heiden gave him the authority immediately and without question, which surprised Fabel a little: he had become used to his superior being grudging about any extra expenses on an investigation, as if he personally had to finance them. But, there again, this case had started off as three: Jespersen’s death, the Angel killings in St Pauli and Drescher’s torture and murder. It was all getting too messy, too political and the media were focusing on it. Complication was something van Heiden had difficulty dealing with. Fabel guessed that his superior was under pressure to clear it all up as quickly as possible.

  ‘Are you convinced all of these crimes are connected?’ asked van Heiden.

  ‘Pretty convinced,’ said Fabel. He gestured to Karin Vestergaard, who had just come into his office, to sit down. ‘It’s safe to assume that this GDR hit squad called the Valkyries has been operating for profit from here in Hamburg. Drescher ran it and he’s been killed by one of his former trainees.’

  ‘He didn’t recognise her?’ asked van Heiden.

  ‘I get the impression she was a reject, probably because of her mental-health problems. And it was a long time ago. She probably just dropped off his radar and out of his memory.’

  ‘Okay,’ said van Heiden. ‘Keep me informed. So I can keep others informed.’

  ‘Of course.’ Fabel hung up and turned his attention to Vestergaard. Again he noticed that she had done something with her make-up that had subtly changed her look and once more Fabel was struck by how attractive her face was, yet how forgettable. Maybe it was something that Margarethe Paulus shared with her. Maybe the appearance of the Valkyries had been a criterion: attractive but forgettable. Maybe that was why Drescher had not recognised his killer.

  ‘You said you’ve been given new information from the Norwegian investigators of Halvorsen’s murder?’ Fabel asked her.

  ‘The Norwegian National Police have been in touch with me through my office.’ Vestergaard leaned forward and placed a note on Fabel’s desk. ‘This man – Ralf Sparwald – is someone Jørgen Halvorsen seems to have had contact with. It’s believed that Halvorsen visited Hamburg to talk to him.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Fabel examined the name and address written on the note.

  ‘He’s a doctor of some kind. His name was flagged up when the Norwegian police got a warrant to access Halvorsen’s email account. They could only get what is still in his in-box, uncollected. There was an out-of-office reply from this guy’s email address. The Norwegians knew I was in Hamburg and that there was a possible connection here, so they sent this on to me.’

  Fabel checked his watch. Most of the day had been spent at the Drescher crime scene or in briefings. It was now six-thirty p.m. ‘Okay – so you think I should speak to Sparwald? It’ll have to be tomorrow now.’

  ‘No, I think we should speak to Sparwald, if that’s okay with you.’

  Fabel shrugged. ‘I don’t mind you coming along to observe. But please don’t forget whose inquiry this is.’

  ‘Somehow I don’t think you’ll let me forget,’ said Vestergaard, and smiled.

  The address Vestergaard had given Fabel for Sparwald was to the north of the city, in Poppenbüttel, in the Wandsbeck district. Wandsbeck had once been part of Schleswig-Holstein and had only been incorporated into Hamburg at the same time as Altona and even now, sitting on the shores of the Alster River, Poppenbüttel still felt more like a country village than a suburb.

  As soon as Fabel and Vestergaard arrived, it was clear that the address they had been given was Sparwald’s place of work rather than residence. SkK BioTech was located in an unobtrusive, low-level building set in an expanse of well-laid-out garden and fringed with winter-bare trees. Five smallish flags flew from poles set next to each other, UN-style, in the garden: the SkK BioTech logo fluttered in the cold breeze next to the flags of the EU, Germany and, Fabel noticed, the white-on-red Nordic cross of Denmark. There was another flag beside it.

  ‘They must have known you were coming,’ Fabel said to Vestergaard, with a nod to the Danish flag. He looked at the flag next to it. It was a non-national pennant: a white field with a small flared red cross on it.

  The small, dumpy receptionist took a while to come to the desk from an office behind. From her reaction, SkK BioTech was not accustomed to visitors, particularly ones without an appointment. Fabel held up his police identity card.

  ‘We need to speak to Herr Sparwald, if he’s available.’

  ‘Herr Doctor Sparwald,’ corrected the receptionist. She looked from Fabel to Vestergaard and back. She had the nervousness and vague expression of groundless guilt of someone unaccustomed to dealing with the police. ‘I’m afraid he’s not here. He’s on leave. Another two weeks.’

  ‘I see …’ Fabel considered his options for a moment. ‘What is it you do here?’

  ‘I work in the admin department. Deal with correspondence and answer the phones.’

  Fabel laughed. ‘I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. I meant what does SkK BioTech do, exactly?’

  ‘Oh …’ The fleshy cheeks of the small receptionist coloured. ‘We work for medical research companies. Herr Doctor Lüttig could tell you more. Shall I fetch him?’

  ‘If that’s not too much trouble,’ said Fabel.

  Fabel and Vestergaard exchanged a smile when the receptionist left. She returned with a tall, thin and lugubriously sombre man in his late forties. He was dressed in a white lab coat but, to Fabel’s mind, he had the look of a Lutheran preacher from some remote Frisian island.

  ‘I’m Thomas Lüttig. I believe you are looking for my colleague Ralf Sparwald. Is there a problem?’

  Again Fabel held up his ID. ‘I’m Principal Chief Commissar Jan Fabel of the Polizei Hamburg Murder Commission. This is Politidirektør Karin Vestergaard of the Danish National Police.’

  ‘Murder?’ Lüttig’s grave expression became, somehow, graver. ‘What’s this got to do—’

  Fabel held up his hand. ‘Please, don’t concern yourself. Nothing at all directly. We’re just helping out our Norwegian colleagues with a few inquiries. I believe Dr Sparwald is on leave?’

  ‘Yes. He won’t be back for … let me see, he’s been away a week, so he won’t be back for another two and a half weeks,’ said Lüttig.

  ‘That’s a long holiday,’ said Fabel.

  ‘Yes. It is. I suppose it had to be … China you see. I suppose if you travel that far you’ve got to make it worth your while. Although I really could do with him here … Dr Sparwald is my deputy, you see, as well as being the most senior analyst.’

  Fabel began to translate into English for Vestergaard what Lüttig had said.

  ‘I studied at Cambridge, amongst other places,’ Lüttig interrupted him. ‘It’s quite in order for me to speak in English if that makes things easier.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Vestergaard, and smiled. ‘You couldn’t arrange cover for him? A trip to China takes a lot of arranging – you must have had a fair bit of advance warning.’

  ‘That’s the thing. I didn’t. Ralf sort of sprung this on me out of the blue. He’s like that – he is a very committed environmentalist. That’s why he works here: the group we do work for is heavily involved in environmental clean-up. But even with warning, it would be practically impossible to find someone to fill in for him. Or at least anyone with a remotely similar set of skills.’

  ‘Can you explain what it is you do here?’

  ‘Basically we’re an analysis laboratory,’ said Lüttig. ‘We’re a wholly owned subsidiary of an environmental and biotechnical group. We do all of their analytical work. Toxicology. Everything from soil samples to human tissue. We specialise in evaluating environmental impacts and identifying pollution-related health risks.’

  ‘I se
e,’ said Fabel. ‘Do you know what part of China Dr Sparwald is visiting?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t.’

  ‘Is he travelling alone, do you know?’ asked Vestergaard.

  ‘Again, I’m not really sure. He said something about a Norwegian friend.’

  Fabel and Vestergaard exchanged a look.

  ‘Didn’t you say you were helping the Norwegian police?’ Lüttig frowned. ‘Is Ralf in some danger?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Fabel. ‘Not at all. It’s just that he may have information that could be useful to us. This Norwegian, do you know his name?’

  ‘No. Ralf just mentioned he might be travelling with a Norwegian friend. Are you sure Ralf’s not in danger? The Chinese authorities don’t always take kindly to foreign environmentalists.’

  ‘Do you have Dr Sparwald’s cellphone number?’ asked Vestergaard. ‘We could perhaps reach him on that.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Lüttig. ‘I’ll get it for you.’

  ‘You said you are a wholly owned subsidiary of a group,’ said Fabel. ‘Would that be the NeuHansa Group?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Fabel handed Lüttig one of his Polizei Hamburg visiting cards. ‘If you hear from Dr Sparwald, I’d be grateful if you could tell him I would like to speak to him as a matter of urgency. And if you come across anything that you think would be of interest to us, please give me a call.’

  ‘Of course.’ Lüttig turned back to Vestergaard. ‘I’ll get you Ralf’s number and home address.’

  ‘How did you know that SkK Biotech was owned by the NeuHansa Group?’ Vestergaard asked Fabel as they walked back to the car.

  ‘That.’ He thrust his chin in the direction of the pennant flying beside the other flags. ‘The small red cross. In German we call that a Tatzenkreuz. You know, the flared cross you see on German military vehicles. Well, the one on that flag is less flared and it’s red on a white background. It’s a Hanseatic cross. I’m guessing it’s some kind of corporate logo. That and the Danish flag made me think of Gina Brønsted, the owner of the NeuHansa Group.’

  ‘Is it significant?’

  ‘Not significant. Coincidental. The most recent victim of the St Pauli Angel also worked for a NeuHansa Group company. But that’s not unusual – so do a lot of people.’

  ‘Funny things, coincidences,’ said Vestergaard. ‘I tend not to believe in them.’ As they were about to get back into his car, she handed Fabel the note Lüttig had given her with Sparwald’s home address on it.

  ‘Nor do I,’ said Fabel.

  When they got back from SkK Biotech, Fabel found a thick legal envelope on his desk. He had just picked it up when Werner came in. Karin Vestergaard diplomatically excused herself and left the two men alone.

  ‘She’s becoming your shadow,’ said Werner. ‘Doesn’t it get on your nerves?’

  ‘As a matter of fact it doesn’t. I would be every bit as hands-on if you got yourself killed in Copenhagen and I went up to find out what happened.’

  ‘What can I say?’ Werner grinned. ‘I’m touched.’ He nodded towards the envelope. ‘That arrived half an hour ago and I just left it on your desk. It’s the details of Westland’s investments, correspondence, that sort of thing. Westland’s widow sent them over like you asked.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll look at it later. Anything else new?’

  ‘Yes, there is, as a matter of fact.’ Werner swung open the door and called through to Dirk Hechtner, who came in carrying an evidence bag, which he placed on Fabel’s desk. The bag contained a curved blade attached to a leather device that looked halfway between a wrist-strap and a glove.

  ‘Things have just got even more interesting,’ said Dirk Hechtner. ‘This is one of the things we found in Margarethe Paulus’s apartment. We did get positive traces of blood from the leather … unfortunately they were too small and too degraded to get a match. However, we did manage to get a sample of dried blood from around the base of the blade. Or at least Astrid Bremer did. But we still weren’t able to get a match.’

  ‘A match with whom?’ asked Fabel. ‘There’s no sign that this was used in Drescher’s murder.’

  ‘No, not Drescher. I did some digging … tried to find out what the hell this thing is. I got a name for it. It’s called a srbosjek. I thought this might be the weapon used to kill Goran Vujaić in Copenhagen. You know, the Serbian gangster.’

  ‘Vujaić?’ Fabel frowned. ‘What made you make the connection to Vujaić?’

  Hechtner nodded towards the object in the evidence bag. ‘This is a particularly horrible device with only one purpose: to murder. It was designed for the Ustae, the fascists who ran Croatia during the Second World War. The Ustae believed in an ethnically cleansed Croatia, free of Serbs, Gypsies, Jews … They set up their own concentration camp, Jasenovac, where they murdered a million or more. They were very hands-on about it all: they clubbed, stabbed or hacked their victims to death, all of which was very labour-intensive. So they came up with the srbosjek. It was used to cut throats with maximum speed and minimum effort. That’s why I made the connection with Vujaić – srbosjek is Croat for “Serb Cutter”. It struck me that maybe someone was being poetic.’

  ‘More like they’re trying to tell us something.’ Fabel picked up the evidence bag. The srbosjek was an ugly, vicious-looking thing, even if you didn’t know its history. ‘But this definitely wasn’t the weapon used to kill Vujaić. His throat wasn’t cut: the blade used to kill him was more like a thin stiletto or a needle file, pushed into the heart from under the sternum. But good work, Dirk. You may be on to something.’

  Fabel met Susanne in the Presidium canteen for lunch. She had spent an hour on the phone with Köpke, the Mecklenburg State Hospital Chief Psychiatrist. Karin Vestergaard had phoned Fabel and explained that she needed to catch up on a few things with her office. There had been something about her manner on the phone that made him feel that she was not being entirely straightforward with him. But he dismissed the thought: Vestergaard knew that if she withheld anything from Fabel he would shut her out of the investigation into Jespersen’s death.

  ‘You look tired,’ said Fabel as they picked up their trays and inched along in a queue of blue uniforms. Susanne had a large thick leather-bound notebook tucked under her arm. Fabel could see Post-it notes sprouting like foliage from its edges and he noticed that she had jammed various other folded sheets between its pages.

  ‘I’ve had a lot to take in,’ she said wearily. ‘You say you’ve spoken with Köpke?’

  ‘I’ve had that pleasure,’ said Fabel, with a wry smile.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve been talked at like that since I was a first-year student,’ said Susanne. She broke off to place her order with the canteen assistant. ‘He’s not the most patient of people, is he? In fact, for a psychiatrist, he doesn’t seem much of a people person.’

  ‘If you mean he’s an arsehole,’ said Fabel, ‘then I would agree with your professional assessment. I thought you southerners were direct and outspoken.’

  ‘I’m acclimatising. Another year or two up here and I’ll be locking up all that emotion deep inside till it rots away at me, just like the rest of you. Anyway, arsehole or not, I had to take a hell of a lot of notes while I spoke to him. He was well prepared. And he thinks we should be too, before we talk to Margarethe Paulus again.’

  ‘He has a point,’ said Fabel.

  ‘How is the head?’ asked Susanne.

  ‘It’s fine – it really wasn’t too bad. It’s my pride that’s taken the bruising.’

  ‘What, because you were beaten up by a woman?’ They found a place over by the window and reasonably distant from the majority of occupied tables.

  ‘Because I mishandled the whole situation. What have you got?’

  Susanne dropped her notebook with a thud onto the canteen table. She looped a stray lock of raven hair behind her ear, slipped on her glasses and started to flick through her notes.

  ‘She’s a psychopath. That’s for sure. But,
whatever else has been going on, she’s not a serial killer. Köpke insists that she could not be responsible for any of the other killings.’

  ‘That’s not right – she had escaped from the hospital before Jake Westland and Armin Lensch were killed. And Jespersen, too. She could well have committed those murders. The only thing she’s in the clear for is the original Angel killings.’

  ‘No, no – that’s not what Köpke means. Margarethe may well have been available to commit those other murders, but Köpke is certain that she was focused exclusively on killing Drescher. She would have no compunction about killing others, but she saw herself as being on a mission. The only other people she would have murdered would have been anyone who stood in the way of her killing Drescher.’

  ‘Maybe she found out that Jespersen was on Drescher’s trail,’ said Fabel between mouthfuls.

  ‘Isn’t that pretty unlikely? Anyway, let me summarise what Köpke told me: Margarethe Paulus is a psychopath, but it’s difficult to decide whether she’s a primary or a secondary psychopath. Primaries tend to be born that way or are genetically predisposed to psychopathy, whereas secondaries are made that way by experience, environment or as the result of drug abuse, et cetera. Margarethe clearly went through a neurological trauma as part of her childhood brain surgery. Maybe her psychopathy is iatrogenic, the adverse side effect of medical intervention. But it’s hard to tell – psychopathy only really begins to manifest itself in adolescence. We’re all egocentric as kids: it goes with the territory. But whereas we mature and get an idea of ourselves as social beings, psychopaths don’t. The scary thing is that there’s a good chance that one in every hundred of the population are psychopaths.’

  ‘You’re kidding …’

  ‘No joke. And a lot more are borderline. We’ve all known someone who is totally egomaniacal. The husband who dumps his wife of twenty years along with his kids without a second thought. Or the business boss who sacks loyal workers without a twinge of conscience … A lot of people we consider self-centred arseholes are often psychopathic. They have a piece of their make-up missing. The majority of psychopaths in society manage to fit in and never become involved in criminal or overtly antisocial behaviour.’ Susanne took a sip of her coffee. ‘You know we were talking about Irma Grese, the Bitch of Belsen? Well, maybe that’s a perfect example of someone who could have gone through life and had a perfectly normal existence. That’s the danger, Jan, that when someone like Hitler comes along he can tap into that one per cent of the population. When you have a core of people who are incapable of feeling guilt or remorse, and who possess absolutely no capacity for pity or compassion or empathy for other human beings, you can persuade them to do almost anything.’