Fabel was not the only wrong-footed cop in Hamburg. Almost every law-enforcement officer in the city had been unnerved by the failure of a gang war to erupt. There had been no retaliations for Ulugbay’s murder. In fact, there seemed to have been no intergang violence at all, which in itself was very strange. The Präsidium still buzzed with BND and LKA7 personnel, but the adrenalin-charged intensity had dissolved into an uneasy, frustrated readiness.
This case had begun to suck the light from Fabel’s life. It wasn’t the first to do so and Fabel knew it wouldn’t be the last. It was like hacking his way into dense jungle, slicing a swathe through the clinging undergrowth, only to find that it had closed in behind him, shutting off the way back to the open, to his own life and world, populated by the people he loved. The only way was to press on, cutting a path forward and out into the light.
Fabel had phoned Gabi, his daughter. She had planned to stay the weekend with Fabel, but he explained that he’d have to work at least part of the weekend. He hated having to give up his precious time with Gabi, but, as usual, she had understood. Renate, Fabel’s ex-wife, had responded less positively, her tone on the phone laced with an acid resignation.
Instead of taking his car, Fabel had hailed a taxi to take him up to the covered Arcade on the Alster. The sun was shining and the lack of a breeze – unusual in Hamburg – meant that it felt pleasantly warm outside. As always, the Arcade was packed with shoppers and Fabel weaved his way through the crowds with an unhurried purposefulness. His goal was the Jensen Buchhandlung, a bookshop run by a university friend of Fabel’s, Otto Jensen.
Fabel loved this bookshop. Otto had invested in the most stylish minimalist interior design – clean, straight beechwood shelves and tables and bright lighting – most probably at the behest of his infinitely more organised and style-conscious wife, Else. Otto, on the other hand, was a moving focus of chaos: a gangling, one-metre-ninety tangle of arms and legs who continually seemed to be knocking things over or spilling a cascade of books and papers from overfull arms. Books were stacked on every surface, magazines heaped on the floor or piled on the counter. But the range of titles was stunning, and the disorder simply turned every visit into a voyage of discovery. In some strange way the disarray was the purest language of the bibliophile. It was a language Fabel spoke.
As Fabel entered, he saw Otto sitting behind the counter. He had a book on his lap, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. It was a pose that Fabel had associated with Otto since their university days: a posture that made Fabel think that Otto was drawing in his gangly limbs to form a cage, cocooning himself from the outside world and committing himself exclusively to the universe that existed between the covers of whatever book he was reading.
Fabel walked over to the counter and leaned both elbows on a pile of books. It took a couple of seconds for Otto to realise someone was there.
‘Sorry … can I help y—’ The question broke into a broad smile. ‘Well, well, well … if it isn’t the powers of law enforcement …’
Fabel grinned. ‘Hello Otto, you old dope.’
‘Hello Jan. How are you?’
‘Not bad. You?’
‘Crap. I have a store full of people who browse until they see something they like, and then go home and find it second-hand on the Internet. And the rent on this place is astronomical. The price of a trendy location, Else says.’
‘How is Else?’ asked Fabel. ‘Still not realised she’s far too good for you?’
‘Oh no, she tells me that all the time. Apparently, I should be eternally thankful that she took pity on me.’ Otto smiled his gormless smile.
‘She has a point. Have you got my order in?’
‘Oh yes.’ Otto ducked behind the counter and fumbled for a moment. There was the sound of books tumbling onto the floor. ‘Just a minute …’ Otto called. Fabel smiled. Good old Otto: never changes.
Otto reappeared dramatically and thumped a block of books onto the counter. ‘Here we are!’ He tore a yellow order slip from under an elastic band wrapped around the volumes. ‘All English authors … all in their original English versions.’ Otto looked across to Fabel. ‘A little light reading, huh? How could I forget you were such an Anglophile … your mother’s English of course, isn’t she?’
‘Scottish …’ Fabel corrected him.
‘That explains it!’ Otto slapped his forehead in a dramatic gesture.
‘What?’
‘Why you never pay for lunch!’
Fabel laughed. ‘That’s not because I’m half Scottish … it’s because I’m a Frisian. Anyway, it’s your turn to pay. I paid last time.’
‘Such a fine mind,’ mused Otto, ‘such a lousy memory … Oh, by the way, I’ve got a present for you.’ More fumbling beneath the counter. He added a reference book to the pile. ‘Someone from the university ordered it and never collected it. It’s a dictionary of British surnames. I thought what kind of dull no-life would take this off my hands … and I thought of you.’
‘Thanks, Otto … I think! What do I owe you?’
‘Like I said, it’s a gift. Enjoy!’
Fabel thanked Otto again. ‘Otto, do you have anything on old Norse religion?’
‘Sure. Believe it or not there is quite a demand.’
‘Really?’ Fabel said disbelievingly.
‘Yep. Odinists mainly.’
‘Odinists? You mean people still practise this religion?’ A faint electric current ran across Fabel’s skin.
‘Asatru … I think they call it. Or just Odinism. Harmless lot, I suppose. Just a bit sad, really.’
‘I had no idea,’ said Fabel. ‘You say you get many in here?’
‘The odd one or two. And I do mean odd. Although there’s one guy who has been in once or twice who doesn’t have the oddball or hippy look.’
Someone increased the current across Fabel’s skin. ‘When was the last time he was in?’
Otto laughed. ‘Am I being interrogated by the police?’
‘Please Otto, it could be important.’
Otto recognised the seriousness on his friend’s face. ‘About a month ago, I think. He may have been in since, but I haven’t served him.’
‘What did he buy?’
Otto’s acre of forehead creased in concentration. Fabel knew that, for all Otto’s outward disorder, his mind was a supercomputer of book titles, authors and publishers. The frown evaporated, the data-processing was complete.
‘I’ll show you. We have another copy in stock.’
Fabel followed Otto across to the New Age and Occult section of the store. Otto slipped a thick volume from the shelf and handed it to Fabel. It was titled
Runecast: Rites and Rituals of the Viking
. It was clearly no academic tome, but intended for a more general audience. Fabel opened the book at the back and scanned down the index. There was an entry for Blood Eagle. A glance through the text showed a page and a half was devoted to the ritual.
‘Otto, I need a name for this customer. Or at least a description.’
‘That’s easy. I don’t think I have an address or anything: he’s never actually ordered a title. I can look back and see if I can get a credit-card slip or something. But, like I say, remembering the name is easy. He spoke perfect German with only the slightest hint of an accent, but he had a British or American name: John MacSwain.’
Friday 13 June, 3.45 p.m. Rotherbaum, Hamburg.
He had, at least, had the courtesy to inform Kolski at LKA7 Abteilung Organisierte Kriminalität of his intention. Fabel could tell that Kolski was not happy about it, but information had not exactly been flowing from the Organised Crime Division and as a result he felt entitled to pursue his inquiry across boundaries.
Fabel was aware that he was looking at three million euros’ worth of property. Mehmet Yilmaz’s three-storey Rotherbaum house was, ironically, only ten minutes’ walk from Fabel’s flat. Its Jugendstil Art Nouveau façade presented a convinced elegance to the tree-lined street. It was one of a row of five houses, each equally vast in scale, each equally solid in presence, each totally different in style: Bauhaus sat next to Art Deco next to Neo-Gothic.
Fabel had expected the door to be answered by a broom-moustached Turkish heavy. It wasn’t: an attractive young housekeeper with short but lustrous golden blonde hair politely asked who was calling and for whom, and guided Fabel through a hallway of polished stone to a large round reception room. This was the centre of the house; the room was the full height of the house and capped with a cupola whose central, circular, stained-glass skylight dappled the floor with splashes of colour. From some far corner of the house Fabel could hear halting piano-playing and the sound of children laughing.
There were a couple of piles of leather-bound books on the vast circular walnut table that sat in the centre of the reception room. Fabel had just picked one up, a second edition of Goethe’s
The Sorrows of Young Werther
, when a tall, slim and clean shaven man of about fifty entered. His hair was mid-brown and greying at the temples.
‘We spoke on the phone, Herr Kriminalhauptkommissar. You wanted to speak to me?’ asked Mehmet Yilmaz, without a hint of a Turkish accent.
Fabel became aware that he was still holding the Goethe in his hand. ‘Oh, I’m sorry …’ He put the book down. ‘Wonderful condition. Do you collect?’
‘As a matter of fact I do,’ answered Yilmaz. ‘German romantics, Sturm und Drang, that kind of thing. Whenever I can – whenever I can afford – I like to pick up first editions.’
Fabel suppressed a smile: in these surroundings it was difficult to imagine Yilmaz struggling to pay for anything. The Turk walked over to the table and picked up another, smaller volume in a rich burgundy binding.
‘Theodor Storm,
Der Schimmelreiter
– a first edition and my latest acquisition.’ He handed the book to Fabel. The burgundy leather was soft and yielding. Almost warm. It was as if its age were palpable: as if Fabel’s fingertips were brushing against all the other fingertips that had handled the book over the past century.
‘Beautiful,’ said Fabel sincerely. He handed the volume back. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you at home, Herr Yilmaz, and thank you for seeing me at such short notice. I just felt that it was a little less formal … I would like to ask you some questions about a case I’m working on.’
‘Yes, you said on the phone. Are you sure this shouldn’t be done more formally? Specifically, with my lawyer present?’
‘That, of course, is up to you, Herr Yilmaz. But I want to make it clear that I am speaking to you not as a suspect but simply as someone who can perhaps provide some helpful information. By the way, Herr Yilmaz, before we go any further, my condolences on the death of your cousin.’
Yilmaz moved over towards a coffee table and two leather armchairs by the wall. ‘Please, Herr Fabel, sit down.’ The blonde housekeeper came in with a cafetière. She poured two cups and left.
‘Thank you, Herr Fabel. It’s not often that a Hamburg policeman addresses me so … politely. It is sad, but Ersin was always so …
impetuous
, shall we say. Anyway, ask your questions and I’ll do what I can to help. What is this case? You said on the phone you wanted to talk to me about Hans Klugmann? I’ve already spoken to your colleagues Herr Buchholz and Herr Kolski about him. I’ve told them, I have no idea where he is.’
Fabel understood Kolski’s annoyance about this visit to Yilmaz: what were LKA7 doing looking for Klugmann?
‘Yes. But that’s not the case I’m investigating. I’m looking into the murder of a young prostitute who rented an apartment from Klugmann. We know her only as “Monique”.’
Yilmaz sipped his coffee without taking his eyes off Fabel. There was no reaction to the name. Not a flicker in the eye. Nothing.
‘Was Monique working for you?’ Fabel asked. ‘Even indirectly, through Klugmann?’
‘No, Herr Fabel, she was not.’
‘Listen, Herr Yilmaz, I have no interest in your business or other activities. All I am trying to do is to catch a serial killer before he strikes again. What you tell me here is off the record.’
‘I appreciate that, Herr Fabel, and I reiterate: this girl was not working for me directly or indirectly. Whatever I may be involved in, I do not run cheap back-street prostitutes …’
‘Could Klugmann have been running her as a private venture?’
‘Possibly. I really wouldn’t know. Klugmann is not one of my people, even if your colleagues from LKA7 Organised Crime insist that he is.’
‘You have to admit that someone with his … employment history would be very useful to your organisation.’
‘Herr Hauptkommissar, we have been frank with each other thus far. In the same spirit of candour I’ll tell you this much – and as you say, off the record. Klugmann is someone on the fringes. You’re right, his particular background makes him very useful, but he has never been fully trusted by anyone on our side of the fence. There’s always a lingering doubt about ex-policemen.’ Yilmaz took a sip from his coffee cup. ‘My cousin Ersin used Klugmann as a freelance resource, but that’s as far as it went.’
‘So how does he make a living?’
‘My organisation is not the only game in town, Herr Fabel. Besides, he worked regularly as an assistant manager at one of our clubs, the Paradies-Tanzbar. All quite legitimate.’ Yilmaz gave a half smile and took another sip of coffee. ‘Well, almost.’