Fabel was momentarily taken aback by Van Heiden’s knowledge of information technology. ‘That’s right. We’ve had two separate e-mails, each with a separate Internet provider and identity. We followed both up and found out that our guy has hacked into what should be an impenetrably secure network and set up fake accounts. He then sends the e-mails through these accounts.’
Fabel turned away from the window. There were six people around the cherrywood table. The four principal members of Fabel’s Mordkommission team – Werner Meyer, Maria Klee, Anna Wolff and Paul Lindemann – sat together on one side. On the other sat an attractive dark-haired woman of about thirty-five, Dr Susanne Eckhardt, the criminal psychologist. At the head of the table was Horst Van Heiden, Leitender Kriminaldirektor of the Polizei Hamburg: Fabel’s boss. Van Heiden rose from his chair, a policeman as if it were his genetic destiny; even now, in his pale grey Hugo Boss suit, he managed to convey the impression of wearing a uniform. He took the few steps across to the briefing-room wall, upon which large, colour photographs, taken from different angles, showed the devastated bodies of two young women. Blood everywhere. White bone gleaming through gore and flesh. Two different women, two different settings, but the horror at the centre of the images remained constant: their lungs lay excavated and thrown out from their bodies. Van Heiden’s eyes ranged over the horror, his face emotionless.
‘I take it you know who I have waiting for me – for us – upstairs, Fabel?’
‘Yes, Herr Kriminaldirektor. I do.’
‘And you know he’s been giving me hell to put an end to … to this.’
‘I am well aware of the political pressures upon you, sir. But my main concern is to prevent some other poor woman falling victim to this animal.’
Van Heiden’s small blue eyes glittered coldly. ‘My priorities, Herr Kriminalhauptkommissar, are exactly where they should be.’ He looked towards the images again. ‘I have a daughter roughly the same age as the second victim.’ He turned back to Fabel. ‘But I can do without the Erste Bürgermeister of Hamburg breathing down my neck.’
‘As I said, sir, we’re all trying to nail this bastard as quickly as we can.’
‘Another thing. All of this “spreading the wings of the eagle” and “our sacred soil” … I don’t like it. It sounds political. The eagle – the German eagle?’
‘Could be,’ Fabel said, looking over to Susanne Eckhardt.
‘Could be …’ she confirmed. When she spoke her voice was tinged with a southern accent: Munich, Fabel reckoned. ‘But the eagle is a potent psychological image in any culture, an icon for power and predation. The eagle could be his metaphor: observing, circling above, unseen by his prey, then swooping silently for the kill. It’s more likely that he is motivated by some deeply sublimated and abstracted sexual drive rather than extremist political ideology. This man isn’t a fanatic: he’s a psychotic. There’s a difference … although I must admit the religiosity of the e-mail – the sense of crusade – and the ritualised method of death bother me.’
‘Are we looking for some crazed neo-Nazi or not?’ There was an aggressive edge to Van Heiden’s voice.
‘I doubt it. I doubt it very much. The victims are not from non-German ethnic backgrounds, they are not the typical targets for neo-Nazi attack. But I cannot exclude it as a possibility. I think this is more likely to be a personal crusade …’ Susanne Eckhardt wore the expression of someone trying to remember where they’d left their car keys.
‘What is it, Frau Doktor?’ asked Fabel.
Dr Eckhardt gave a small, almost apologetic laugh. ‘It’s nothing … or at least it’s nothing that would stand up to professional or even objective scrutiny …’
‘Please share it with us anyway,’ said Van Heiden.
‘Well, it’s just that this e-mail is a textbook example of a socially dysfunctional psychotic. I mean, it’s all there: sentiments of social dislocation and isolation, a perverted, crusading morality, identification with an elevated symbol of predation …’
Fabel felt an electric ruffle through the hairs on his neck. Something else that was too right.
‘I don’t understand …’ Van Heiden had clearly missed the subtext. ‘You’re saying the e-mail is clearly genuine. That it was written by our killer.’
‘No … well yes …’ Eckhardt laughed again, exposing perfect teeth that glistened like porcelain. ‘I really don’t know what I’m saying. Just that if I had sat down to write a missive from a serial killer, I would have included all of these elements.’
‘You’re saying it’s fake? Or are you saying it’s genuine?’ The edge was back in Van Heiden’s voice. ‘I’m getting confused …’
‘It’s probably genuine. Two killings, two e-mails received. If it were a hoaxer or compulsive confessor, then his timing is too good to be true. I’m just making a point. No … an observation.’ Her eyes scanned the room for support. She found it: Fabel was nodding thoughtfully.
Van Heiden blanked her. ‘This last … escapade – do we have anything more to go on, Fabel?’
‘This one bothers me particularly,’ said Fabel. ‘There are a number of anomalies. In fact, there are a number of things we simply don’t know about the victim.’
‘Like her identity …’ said Van Heiden. Fabel couldn’t tell whether or not he was being sarcastic.
‘We’re working on that.’
Van Heiden flicked through the pages of the report. ‘What about this former Mobiles Einsatz Kommando guy that was involved with her? I don’t like the idea of an ex-Polizei Hamburg officer running a prostitute. The media would love that.’
‘Unfortunately we’ve had to let him go,’ said Fabel. ‘But we’ve put a tail on him. He’ll be watched twenty-four hours a day. I am certain he’s withholding evidence, but there’s nothing we can prove.’
‘Have you seen his service record?’
‘I’ve just had it called up,’ said Fabel, sitting down and leaning against the table. He slightly exaggerated the casualness of his pose: he knew his informality rattled Van Heiden and he enjoyed irritating him. ‘I haven’t had much time to look at it yet, but it would appear that Klugmann was a star recruit who showed a great deal of promise until the drugs charge. Before he joined the Polizei Hamburg he served as a Fallschirmjäger …’
‘A paratrooper?’
‘Yes. Perfect grounding for the Mobiles Einsatz Kommando,’ Fabel gave a small laugh. ‘Practice for doing all of your thinking with a gun.’
Van Heiden bristled. ‘The MEKs perform a valuable function. And they are police officers just like us. What was Klugmann’s military record like?’
‘As far as I can see, it bordered on the exemplary …’
‘A good man turned bad …’
‘Or a highly professional thug changing sides … it all depends on how you look at it, sir.’
This time Van Heiden ignored Fabel’s bait. ‘You think he’s holding back on us?’
‘I can’t for one minute believe that he doesn’t know the victim’s full name. But his alibi is tight. We need to confirm the exact time of death, but it’s almost definite that Klugmann is out of the frame.’
‘So why keep him under surveillance? Perhaps our resources could be better employed elsewhere?’
Fabel could sense the exchange of incredulous looks between his team members. ‘Because, sir, we have a body without a name found in the most bizarre circumstances and Klugmann, I feel, is our best lead towards establishing her identity. Like I said, I believe he is hiding something. For all we know that something could be the identity of the killer … it could be that “Son of Sven” was one of the girl’s clients.’
Fabel caught Dr Eckhardt’s glance but ignored it: she knew that he was throwing up a smokescreen. It was obviously a ploy to get Van Heiden off his back. It worked.
‘Okay,’ Van Heiden said. ‘But I’m more interested in the identity of our killer than of the victim. What else have we got underway?’
‘We’re still looking into the background of the other victim.’ Maria Klee pulled some notes from a file. ‘As far as we can see, there’s no connection between them. A prostitute and a high-flying civic lawyer. It looks like he’s picking them at random.’
‘It may seem random to us,’ said Dr Eckhardt, ‘but to the killer there is a connection between them that we cannot yet see. Remember that we are dealing with a profoundly disturbed individual here: his logic is not the same as ours. It could be a similarity in height, the way they walk, the shape of their nose … however abstract, there is commonality that the killer sees … in fact perhaps
only
the killer will ever see.’
There was a pause before Werner chipped in. ‘So that means?’
‘That means every woman in Hamburg, whatever her age or background, is a potential target.’
Van Heiden scratched the grey bristle on his scalp. ‘And so far we only have one potential link with the killer – this man Klugmann, who may or may not know him as a client of this latest victim?’
‘There is another potential link.’ Dr Eckhardt didn’t look up from the table. Her arms lay framing her files. Everyone turned their attention to her. ‘And that link is Kriminalhauptkommissar Fabel. Just as the killer has some abstract criterion in selecting his victims, he has chosen Herr Fabel as his … well, as his alter ego, his opponent in the game, as it were. In his eyes, Herr Fabel is a worthy opponent. He has chosen him as his nemesis. In fact Hauptkommissar Fabel has become an essential element in his fantasy, in his plan. He has made it clear that he intends to engineer the conclusion to this hunt –’ she turned to Fabel – ‘perhaps even by having you kill him. This declaration –
you can stop me but you will never catch me
– is a promise of something.’
‘That I will have to kill him to stop him?’
‘Perhaps. He clearly feels that the psychotic part of his personality is safe from you. He perhaps has a fantasy of immortality that you cannot reach, even by killing him. It’s as if there is some kind of buffer between you.’
‘I am a policeman, not an executioner.’ Fabel paused, frowning. ‘But why has he chosen me?’
‘That I don’t know. Again perhaps only “Son of Sven” will ever know the reason he has picked you … but …’
‘But what?’ asked Van Heiden.
Dr Eckhardt continued to address Fabel directly. ‘Well, he feels
connected
to you. There is a chance that your paths have crossed in the past. Or maybe he is someone you know right now.’
‘But that is by no means definite …’ Fabel made the statement more like a question.
‘No, not definite. It’s just a possibility. This sense of connection may be based simply on what he has read about you, for example … about you or one of your cases and made his choice based on that.’
‘But it could be someone whose path
has
crossed mine in the past, perhaps significantly?’
‘I think it’s a possibility … but only that.’
Fabel turned to Van Heiden: a look laden with meaning. Van Heiden shook his head. ‘Not that old chestnut, Fabel …’
Fabel shrugged. ‘I know. It’s just I can’t help thinking that it would fit: Svensson taunting me with this “Son of Sven” crap … telling me he’s alive and that this is his work …’
Van Heiden shook his head ‘Give it up, Fabel. Svensson is dead. He’s been dead for nearly twenty years.’
‘Who’s Svensson?’ asked Dr Eckhardt.
‘History,’ answered Van Heiden. ‘Ancient history, and nothing whatsoever to do with this case. Someone long dead.’
‘
Presumed
long dead,’ corrected Fabel. ‘Supposedly burned to death. But there wasn’t enough evidence to prove the body was his. His name was Karl-Heinz Svensson and he was an evil manipulative bastard who maintained a cell of young female terrorists. He was a former member of the Baader-Meinhof Rote-Armee-Fraktion who set up in business for himself. At that time there were a lot of splinter groups who didn’t share the Baader-Meinhof philosophy of going completely underground. There was the Movement 2nd June and the SPK, which predated the Rote-Armee-Fraktion, and there were the Revolutionäre Zellen, who combined active, deep-cover terrorists with “legals” working in plain sight. Then there was Rote Zora – which was exclusively female. Svensson borrowed from them all. He called his unit RAG – the Radikale Aktionsgruppe. Most of the girls he operated were in their late teens. He sent them out to plant bombs in the arcades by the Alster and to hold up banks.’
‘Fabel and I have been over this before.’ Van Heiden turned back to Dr Eckhardt. ‘Because of the inconclusiveness of the identification of Svensson’s body, Fabel suspects that he may have somehow come back from the grave to carry out these murders.’
‘Is that what you believe?’ she asked Fabel.
‘No, not necessarily. Not really. I just think it’s an option we should keep open …’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Dr Eckhardt, ‘I just don’t understand: why are you even considering this person as a potential suspect? I don’t see the connection between a dead terrorist and these serial killings …’
‘I admit it’s highly unlikely. And I do accept what Herr Kriminaldirektor Van Heiden says – it probably
was
Svensson who died in the explosion. But it was the reference to “Son of Sven” that first started me wondering … and the continuous reference to eagles. Svensson’s codename was “Eagle”. Added to that is the weird relationship he had with women.’
‘In what way weird?’
‘He seemed to need to totally dominate them. He was supposedly physically intimate with all of his group. The press dubbed them “Svensson’s Harem”.’