Schreiber straightened his shoulders, as if mustering the scattered remnants of his dignity. The trapezius muscles strained against the sleek fabric of his Armani suit. It was the kind of conformation that only comes from serious weight work in a gym. Fabel could imagine that Schreiber was physically very strong. Powerful enough in a killing frenzy to wrench open a victim’s ribs.
‘No, Herr Fabel, I didn’t have any kind of inappropriate relationship with Frau Kastner. Contrary to the impression you may have of me, I am neither a serial killer nor a serial philanderer. The affair I had with Angelika is the only time I have strayed in my marriage. And the only reason that happened was because Angelika and I had a history. There was no personal dimension to my relationship with Ursula Kastner … although it was I who introduced her to Angelika.’
There seemed an eternity of silence. Fabel and Van Heiden exchanged a look. Fabel felt a tingle of electricity. It was Van Heiden who broke the spell.
‘Are you telling us that Angelika Blüm and Ursula Kastner knew each other? That there is a connection between them?’
‘I assumed you knew … with them both being killed by the same person, I mean.’
‘The only link we had between them was you, Herr Doktor Schreiber,’ said Fabel. ‘Now you say they had contact with each other?’
‘Yes. It was Ursula who instigated the introduction. She said she needed a “friendly” contact in the media for background information.’
‘Is that normal?’
‘No. I wasn’t too happy about it. I suspected that Ursula had information on something that she wanted leaked to the press. I insisted she tell me if it was anything potentially injurious to the Hamburg state government. She assured me that she had no knowledge of anything that would attract negative attention to the city government. She insisted it was only for advice.’
‘Did you believe her?’
‘No. I don’t think I did. But I had to take her word for it. And anyway, if she was going to blow the whistle on something to do with the city, she would hardly come through me.’
‘Angelika Blüm never told you what it was about.’
‘No.’
‘Did you ask?’
‘A couple of times, but I didn’t get anywhere. Then I gave up. If you knew Angelika you would understand.’
‘How often did they meet?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t even know if they ever met other than at the Neuer Horizont reception where I introduced them. They maybe met regularly or not at all, or dealt with each other by phone or e-mail. I just don’t know.’
‘Did you invite them both to this function?’
‘No, it so happens they were both there … on business, as it were. Neuer Horizont is a plan to regenerate areas of the city that have missed out on the big schemes, like Hafen City or the St Pauli regeneration, but which may still qualify for federal, state or EU funding.’
Fabel gazed out through the huge stone arched window that faced out back towards the Alsterfleet and the Alsterarkaden. He tried to keep his mind working logically and methodically, but his thoughts were turbocharged by the thrill of epiphany. Previously unconnected trails were now converging. Colliding and sparking off each other in Fabel’s brain. Two out of three victims had been in contact with each other. And both had a connection to property dealings through the city government. He turned back to Schreiber.
‘Who is behind the Neuer Horizont initiative?’
‘A private consortium. The main shareholder is a subsidiary of the Eitel Group. It was Norbert Eitel who held the reception.’ Schreiber shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I’m no fan of Eitel, but the city cannot be seen not to support any initiative that offers potential benefits.’
Another connection. Another spark. ‘I thought the Eitel Group was exclusively a media business?’
Schreiber shook his head. ‘No, the publishing arm is their main business, but Eitel is involved in dozens of other areas. Information technology is one. Property development is another.’
Fabel nodded thoughtfully. ‘Was Eitel’s father there? Wolfgang Eitel?’
‘No. he wasn’t. That’s where I draw the line … I won’t share a platform with a Nazi like him, no matter how beneficial the cause. I think that’s why he was kept away … despite their public shows of solidarity, Norbert Eitel is very much aware of the liability his father represents to his political ambitions.’
‘You must have been shocked by Kastner’s murder.’
‘That’s an understatement. It was a terrible shock. You remember Innensenator Hugo Ganz?’
Fabel nodded. He thought of Ganz’s scrubbed, fleshy pink face.
‘Frau Kastner worked quite closely with Herr Ganz. Specifically to do with environmental and property-development projects. She provided the legal back-up. Innensenator Ganz was very upset by Frau Kastner’s death. That’s why I think he was so …
emphatic
when you met him last.’
‘Presumably you remember where you were when Frau Kastner went missing?’
‘I was attending an environmental conference in Rome.’ Schreiber spoke without emotion. Then a small hope lit up his face. ‘That’s right! I wasn’t even in the country when she was killed. And I have a hundred witnesses. And when was the second victim killed?’
‘The early hours of Wednesday the fourth,’ said Fabel.
Schreiber scrabbled though his desk diary. ‘I was at home with my family. They can verify it.’
Fabel didn’t look impressed. ‘All I am interested in just now is Frau Blüm’s murder. And you were there immediately before she was killed.’
‘But I had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all.’ A hint of defiance was beginning to creep into Schreiber’s tone. The realisation that he had alibis for the other two killings clearly emboldened him.
Fabel changed tack. ‘Did you know that Frau Blüm had been trying to get in touch with me, personally?’
‘No … no, I didn’t. What on earth for?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t get a chance to return her calls,’ Fabel lied. It sounded better than saying he hadn’t bothered.
‘Do you think she thought she was in any kind of danger? Do you think that’s why she was trying to contact you?’ Schreiber didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Why didn’t she tell me? If she was afraid … why didn’t she talk to me?’
Fabel stood up. Van Heiden followed his lead. ‘I have no reason to believe that she felt in danger. All I know is she tried to get in touch with me three or four times before she died. But she didn’t indicate in any of the messages she left that she was in danger.’
Fabel made for the door without shaking Schreiber’s hand. ‘Like I say, Herr Doktor Schreiber, I may have more questions for you. And I’ll arrange for our forensics guy to come and take your fingerprints.’
Fabel had opened the heavy oak door when he turned back to face Schreiber. ‘One more thing. When was the last time you met or had any contact with Marlies Menzel?’
Schreiber looked at first surprised, then a little worried. ‘God … I don’t know … not for years. Not since we worked together on
Zeitgeist
and certainly not since she got involved with terrorism.’
‘You haven’t been in touch since she was released from Stuttgart-Stammheim?’
‘No. Absolutely not.’ And Fabel knew he was telling the truth.
The same liveried attendant escorted Fabel and Van Heiden out into the main Rathaus hall. The sun dazzled them both as they stepped through the Gothic arch out into the wide expanse of the Rathaus square.
‘What do you think?’ asked Van Heiden.
‘He’s not our man,’ said Fabel, taking his sunglasses from his breast pocket and donning them. ‘I have to take a trip to Bremen. Can I buy you a coffee in the Alsterarkaden before I head off, Herr Kriminaldirektor?’
Thursday 19 June, 2.20 p.m. Kunstgalerie Nordholt, Bremen
.
Fabel had estimated that the journey to Bremen would take about an hour and a half, but halfway there the traffic on the A
1
began to thicken and slow. Facing a long stretch of autobahn, he decided to put a CD into the player of his car: Herbert Grönemeyer,
Bleibt alles anders
. He had just turned up the volume when his cell phone rang. It was Maria Klee; they had the autopsy findings on Klugmann. He had been killed by a single bullet that had passed through his cerebrum and pulped his medulla oblongata, exiting, as Brauner had pointed out, above the top lip and below the nose. The estimated time of death was between 6.00 p.m. on Friday the 13th and 6.00 a.m. on Saturday the 14th. Fabel flinched when Maria told him that the autopsy had revealed signs of torture and beating in the period immediately pre-mortem. Tests had also revealed traces of amphetamine in Klugmann’s blood. Living the life. The ultimate cover. And it had failed.
Maria also had a ballistics report. Brauner had been right: the bullet casing belonged to a non-standard weapon. Fabel gave Maria a snapshot of his interview with Schreiber and asked that she update Werner.
The traffic eased. Fabel found himself further along the road than he had been aware of driving. He had been on automatic pilot, his mind in some dark, lonely place with an undercover policeman who knew, as he was being tortured, that death was waiting for him with an immediate and ineluctable certainty. For a split second Fabel was able to mentally place himself there and felt a nauseous fluttering in his chest. A feeling he recognised as the pale shadow of an unimaginable terror.
The signs indicated he was approaching Bremen Kreuz and he took the exit from the A
1
onto the A27 towards Bremen.
Nordholt art gallery was just off the main Marktplatz in Bremen. It was housed in a fine late-nineteenth-century building with huge bow-fronted windows. When Fabel entered, Marlies Menzel was supervising the hanging of one of her paintings. A woman of about fifty, she wore a long dark skirt and a loose black jacket with padded shoulders. Her dull brown hair was cut short with dyed highlights. She wore a pair of small, square wire-framed glasses. She looked more like a librarian than a recently released terrorist, thought Fabel as he made his way across the gallery. He stopped halfway. The blank white walls of the gallery were punctuated by huge canvases. Fabel had already been aware, having seen them in the exhibition brochure, of the bizarre similarity of the paintings with the Blood Eagle murder scenes. What he had not been prepared for was the powerful visual impact of the artworks. Each canvas was two metres tall by one wide. The paint screamed from the canvas in vivid, visceral colours. The brushwork was forceful and confident. Each painting was violence in two dimensions.
Fabel made his way over to the small group.
‘Frau Menzel?’
She turned to Fabel. ‘Yes?’ A polite smile stretched the thin lips.
‘I wonder if I could have a word.’ Fabel held out his oval KriPo shield.
The smile was swept away. ‘This really is getting tiresome. I have been visited by almost every security service in Germany since my release. This is beginning to look like harassment.’
‘This isn’t really official …’
‘Oh? In that case I don’t know if I should be talking to you at all.’ Menzel turned away.
‘Frau Menzel,’ Fabel said, ‘I’m Kriminalhauptkommissar Jan Fabel. I was the police officer who was involved in the shooting at the pier in 1983 …’
Menzel stood with her back to Fabel for a moment. ‘You shot Gisela?’
‘I had no choice. She’d already shot me once and was going to shoot me again. I begged her to stop, but …’ Fabel’s voice trailed off.
‘She was just a child.’ Menzel turned to face him.
‘She gave me no choice. She had killed my colleague and she had already wounded me,’ Fabel said without any hint of bitterness. ‘I told her to drop the gun but she aimed at me again.’ As Fabel spoke, he saw Gisela Frohm once more, at the end of the pier, the glittering gun hanging at the end of her skinny girl’s arm, like a weight on a rope, then swinging up to fire. He had shot her twice. In the face. He remembered her punk-pink hair as her head snapped back and she fell into the harbour. It had been the worst day of his career. Of his life. And he would never forget it.
Marlies Menzel regarded Fabel. There was no hostility in the look. It seemed to Fabel that she was considering his words. She turned to the two assistants who were helping her to hang the painting. ‘I’m just going out for a moment. We’ll hang the rest later.’ Then to Fabel: ‘I think we should go somewhere else to talk.’
The café was just off Bremen’s Katharinenstrasse. A highly polished counter ran its entire length. The staff behind the counter continuously placed trays with white tea or coffee pots and cups on the polished bar. The air was full of the rich odour of freshly milled coffee. The waiting staff, dressed in black trousers and waistcoats with white aprons tied around the waist, collected the trays and carried them over to the customers’ tables. There was a comforting rhythm to the mechanics of service.
Fabel and Marlies Menzel chose a table by the window. Menzel sat with her back to the oak panelling while Fabel sat opposite her, with a view up the street towards the Marktplatz. She pulled out a packet of French cigarettes, and after a moment’s thought she offered one to Fabel.
‘No thanks. I don’t smoke.’
She smiled and lit a cigarette. She inhaled deeply, tilted her head upwards and to one side and blew the smoke into the air, twisting her mouth slightly to make sure it blew away from Fabel.