Three LKA7 bomb-disposal officers joined their commander. They brought with them four large black canvas holdalls which they placed a few metres from the car and took equipment from them, laying it out on the ground. Fabel took comfort from the clearly well-practised methodology and the reassuringly purposeful movements of the squad members. Two officers took something that looked like an
oversized chunky laptop computer along with some cables and disappeared from Fabel’s view and under the car.
Fabel sat in the BMW convertible that he had owned for six years and waited. As he did so, he did his best to think his way though this mess.
Gabi. Fabel had fought back the instinct to panic, to get the bomb squad to tell his team to arrange protection for her. If he had, he would have shown his cards to the killer, who would know that Fabel had divulged all their conversation to his superiors. For now, Gabi was safe: whatever business the Hamburg Hairdresser had that evening, it involved one of the people on his list. Gabi was his trump card held back for the moment. Fabel knew that while the killer had seemed to tell him more than would be advisable, he had told him only those things that he wanted Fabel to know. At least now Fabel knew for sure that this was all about the victims’ past.
There was a tapping sound from under the car as the bomb-disposal specialists worked. Delicate work, but to Fabel’s fear-heightened senses every tap reverberated through the car and his body like a hammer striking a bell.
He could do it. He could just drop the case. In fact, if he told Criminal Director van Heiden exactly what the killer had said to him his boss would probably insist that he pass the case on. Fabel reflected bitterly on the truth of the killer’s logic: these people meant nothing to him; his daughter meant everything. Give up the case. Let someone else take it on.
More tapping. Fabel’s mouth felt even dryer. He looked at his watch: 11.45 p.m. For three hours he had not been able to open a door or window and
consequently had not had access to water. Maybe it would end here. A slip of a pair of pliers, the wrong connection severed, and it would all be over. This could be the end of the path he had taken all those years ago, after Hanna Dorn had been murdered. The wrong path.
Sitting in the stifling heat of his car, aware of every sound made and every move taken by the bomb-disposal specialists beneath him, Fabel was conscious of the fact that the person he had spoken to on his cellphone nearly three hours ago had probably already murdered and mutilated another victim. Ideas and images bustled around in a brain that was too tired to think; that had been too afraid for too long to see beyond this single experience. The pictures of his daughter, taken covertly by a maniac, flashed repeatedly through his head.
As Jan Fabel sat there, waiting for rescue or for death, he made a decision about his future.
It happened so fast that it was all over before Fabel knew what was happening. Suddenly the car door was thrown open by one of the bomb-squad team and he was being pulled out by another. The two men rushed Fabel clear of the car, out of the glare of the arc lights and across to the secured perimeter. Van Heiden, Anna Wolff, Werner Meyer, Henk Hermann, Maria Klee, Frank Grueber and Holger Brauner were all gathered by the cordon. Grueber and Brauner were already kitted out in their forensic oversuits, as were the five-strong forensics team with them. Fabel was handed a bottle of water which he gulped at greedily.
The LKA7 commander came over to Fabel. ‘We’ve made safe the device. We’re taking it apart to find the location for the second bomb. So far, nothing.
What’s the deal with this guy, Herr Fabel? Is he a terrorist or an extortionist, or just a maniac?’
‘All of the above,’ said Fabel wearily.
‘Whatever his motive, this guy knows what he’s doing.’ The bomb-squad chief made to head off to his armoured vehicle. Fabel stopped him by placing a hand on his arm.
‘He’s not the only one who knows what they’re doing,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’ The bomb-squad commander smiled.
‘You okay, Jan?’ asked Werner.
Fabel took another slug from the water bottle. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘No, Werner. Far from it.’ He turned to van Heiden. ‘We need to talk, Herr Criminal Director.’
It was Police President Hugo Steinbach, Hamburg’s chief of police, with Criminal Director van Heiden by his side, who made the statement to the assembled press, radio and television journalists who formed a jostling throng on the steps of the Police Presidium.
‘I can confirm that a senior police officer serving with the Polizei Hamburg was the victim of an unsuccessful attempt on his life yesterday evening. As a result of this, for his own safety and to allow him to recuperate fully from the ordeal, he has been removed from duty.’
‘Can you confirm that this officer was Principal Chief Commissar Fabel of the Murder Commission?’ A short, fat, dark-haired reporter in a too-small black leather jacket had pushed his way to the front. Jens Tiedemann was well known to his fellow journalists.
‘We are not prepared, at this stage in the investigation, to give details of the identity of the officer involved,’ answered van Heiden. ‘But I will confirm that it was a member of the Murder Commission who was on duty at the time.’
‘Last night an area of Hammerbrook was evacuated and cordoned off,’ Tiedemann was insistent and raised his voice above the others. ‘It was reported that an explosive device was found and it was assumed that it was a piece of British ordnance from the Second World War and that a team from the bomb squad was defusing it. Can you now confirm that this was in fact a terrorist bomb planted in the vehicle of this officer?’
Tiedemann’s question seemed to fall like a spark that ignited a barrage of other questions from the rest of the journalists. When Police President Steinbach answered he directed his response at the small reporter.
‘We can confirm that members of the bomb-disposal team were deployed to make safe an explosive device at the scene,’ said Steinbach. ‘There is no suggestion of any terrorist involvement.’
‘But this was no World War Two bomb, was it?’ Tiedemann clung on with the persistence of a terrier. ‘Someone was trying to blow up one of your officers, weren’t they?’
‘As we have already stated,’ said van Heiden, ‘an attempt was made on the life of a Murder Commission officer. We cannot say any more at the moment, as our investigation is continuing.’
Several of the other journalists took over from where Tiedemann had led them. But without the information that he clearly had, their questions were shots in the dark. The small newspaperman stood silent, allowing the others to harass the senior officers for a while; then he delivered his
coup de grâce
.
‘Criminal Director van Heiden …’ He could not be heard above the others. ‘Criminal Director van Heiden …’ He repeated the name more loudly, and
his peers fell silent, ready to follow his lead again. ‘Is it true that the bomb under Chief Commissar Fabel’s car was placed there by the Hamburg Hairdresser – the serial killer who is currently murdering former members of the radical movements of the nineteen seventies and nineteen eighties? And is it also true that, as a result of this attempt on Herr Fabel’s life, he has withdrawn from the case?’
Van Heiden’s expression darkened and he glowered at Tiedemann. ‘The Murder Commission officer in question is withdrawing from all his current case-load and handing it over to other officers. The sole reason for this is that he is taking a leave of absence to recover from his experience. There is nothing more to it than that. I assure you that Polizei Hamburg officers cannot be so easily frightened off a case …’
The small reporter said nothing more. But he smiled and allowed the clamour of his colleagues to wash over him. Van Heiden and Police President Steinbach turned their backs on them and made their way back up the steps and into the Presidium while the Polizei Hamburg’s press officer fended off the journalists.
As the clot of journalists on the Presidium steps dissolved, one of them turned to Tiedemann.
‘How did you know all that about what happened?’
The newspaperman indicated the Presidium building with a jerk of his head. ‘I’ve got an inside source. A really good inside source …’
Maybe she should not have set the alarm system for such a short absence from her office: Ingrid
Fischmann had returned from the post office a block away, where she had mailed the package of photographs and information she had prepared for the policeman, Fabel.
She cursed as she dropped the black notebook with the alarm number on the floor. She bent down to pick it up, causing some of the contents to tumble from her open shoulder-bag, and she heard the clatter of her keys on the tiled floor of the hallway. It was always such a fuss just to get in and out of her office, mainly because the key code refused to take up residence in her memory. But Ingrid Fischmann knew that it was a necessary evil: she had to be careful.
The Red Army Faction had officially disbanded in 1998 and the fall of the Berlin Wall had rendered the foundations of the belief system behind such groups redundant. The RAF, the IRA – even, it seemed, ETA – were consigning themselves to the history books. European domestic terrorism seemed an ever more remote concept, compared to that which came from outside. Terrorism in the twenty-first century had taken on a totally different hue and the ideology was religious rather than socio-political. Nevertheless, the people Fischmann exposed through her journalism were very much of the here and now. And many had a history of violence.
‘Okay, okay …’ she said to the alarm control panel in response to its imperative of rapid, urgent electronic beeps. She retrieved the notebook and, not having time to find her glasses, peered at it from a distance to transfer the numbers to the control keypad, stamping the last number with her finger in decisive conclusion. The beeping stopped. Except it did not.
It was like an echo of the alarm sound, but a different pitch. And it wasn’t coming from the keypad.
It took Fischmann a moment, standing stock-still and frowning in concentration, to work out the direction of the sound. From her office.
She followed the beeping sound into the office. It was coming from her desk. She unlocked and opened the top drawer.
‘Oh …’ was all she said.
It was all she had the chance to say. Her brain had only just enough time to process what her eyes were telling it; to take in the cables, the batteries, the blinking LED display, the large sand-coloured packet.
Ingrid Fischmann was dead the instant after her brain had put together the elements to form a single word.
Bomb.
‘I hope this pays off,’ said van Heiden. ‘A great deal of our work depends on the cooperation of the media. When they get wind of this they will not be happy.’
‘It’s a risk we’ve got to take,’ said Fabel. He sat at the conference table with Maria, Werner, Anna, Henk and the two forensic specialists, Holger Brauner and Frank Grueber. There was another man at the table: a short, fat man with glasses and a black leather jacket.
‘They’ll get over it,’ said Jens Tiedemann. ‘But, for the sake of my paper, I would rather everyone thought I was duped into the story, rather than being a co-conspirator, as it were.’
Fabel nodded. ‘I owe you, Jens. Big time. This killer knows how to communicate with me, but it’s
a one-way street. The only way I can get him to believe that I have dropped the case is for it to be announced publicly.’
‘You’re welcome, Jan.’ Tiedemann stood up to leave. ‘I just hope he buys it.’
‘So do I,’ said Fabel. ‘But at least we’ve got my daughter Gabi out of the city and under protection. I’ve got a twenty-four-hour watch on Susanne as well. As for me, I will have to spend most of my time in here, out of sight but running the show through my core team. Officially, Herr van Heiden has taken over the case.’ He stood up and shook Tiedemann’s hand. ‘You put on a convincing show. It’s bought us some time. Like I said, I owe you.’
‘Yes – I rather think you do.’ Tiedemann’s fleshy face was split by a broad smile. ‘And you can be certain that I’ll call it in one day.’
‘I’m sure you will.’
After the reporter left, the smile faded from Fabel’s lips. ‘We’ve got to move fast on this. The Hamburg Hairdresser seems to have an ability to second-guess everything we do. And he seems to have enormous resources, both intellectual and material, to call on. For all I know, he was expecting exactly the kind of announcement that was “forced” out of us by Jens at the press conference. In which case we’re screwed. But if he has gone for it, then he may feel less under pressure because he believes that I’m no longer leading the inquiry. What I don’t understand is why it is so important for him that I am out of the picture.’
‘You are our best murder detective. And with a particularly high conviction rate,’ said van Heiden.
After the meeting Fabel asked to speak to van Heiden in private.
‘Certainly, Fabel. What is it?’
‘It’s this …’ Fabel handed him a sealed envelope. ‘My resignation. I wanted you to have it now so that you are aware of my intentions. Obviously, I am not going to leave until this case is over. But as soon as it is I am quitting the Polizei Hamburg.’
‘You can’t mean this, Fabel.’ Van Heiden looked shocked. A reaction that Fabel hadn’t expected from van Heiden, a man he had always assumed had been indifferent to him; particularly because of Fabel’s apparent disregard for van Heiden’s authority. ‘I meant what I said earlier – we can’t afford to lose you, Fabel …’
‘I appreciate the sentiments, Herr Criminal Director. But I’m afraid my mind is set on it. I had already decided, but when I saw those photographs of Gabi on my cellphone … Anyway, I’m sure you will find a replacement. Maria Klee and Werner Meyer are both excellent officers.’
‘Do they know?’