Tracking down Olsen had not been difficult. He didn’t have much of a record, but what he did have suggested someone who was quick to resolve problems with his fists. He had three recorded convictions for assault, as well as having been cautioned on a trading offence: he had sold on parts that came from a stolen motorcycle.
Wilhelmsburg is Hamburg’s biggest Stadtteil – its largest city division. It is effectively an island in the Elbe, Europe’s largest river island, and it bristles with bridges, including the Köhlbrandbrücke, which connect it to the main city to the north and Harburg to the south. Wilhelmsburg has a strange, undecided look to it, a combination of the rural and the heavy industrial: sheep graze in fields next to hulking industrial sheds. Wilhelmsburg also has a rough reputation often jokingly referred to as Hamburg’s Bronx, and more than a third of its population is immigrant in origin.
Peter Olsen sold and repaired motorcycles from a battered industrial unit down on the riverside in the shadow of the oil refinery. Fabel decided to take both Werner and Anna with him when he went to question Olsen, and asked for a uniformed Schutzpolizei unit to join them. They hadn’t enough evidence to arrest him, but Fabel had managed to get a warrant from the Staatsanwaltschaft state prosecutor’s office to seize his motorcycle for forensic examination.
Fabel pulled up at the overgrown kerb next to the two-metre-high mesh fence that ringed Olsen’s workshop. As they waited for the SchuPo unit to arrive, Fabel surveyed the workshop and yard. The skeletons of four or five motorcycles lay tangled and rusting and a vast Rottweiler dog lay on its side in the yard, occasionally raising its massive head to cast an indolent glance around its domain. Fabel couldn’t see if the dog was tethered or not.
‘Werner, get on to the Wilhelmsburg Polizeirevier,’ Fabel said, still scanning Olsen’s premises. ‘See if they can provide a dog handler. I don’t like the look of Olsen’s pet.’ A green and white marked police van pulled up behind them. It was as if Olsen’s guard dog was trained to respond to police vehicles, because as soon as the van arrived, the dog leapt to its feet and started to bellow deep, loud barks in its direction. A large man, dressed in overalls, emerged from the workshop, wiping his hands on a cloth. He was massively built, with huge shoulders into which the neckless head seemed to have been rammed: he was the human equivalent of the Rottweiler that guarded his yard. The man stared hard at the dog and muttered something, then looked across towards the police vehicles before turning and going back into the workshop.
‘Forget the dog handler, Werner,’ said Fabel. ‘We’d better go and chat to our chum now.’
As they approached the gate it became clear that the dog wasn’t tethered. It bounded towards the approaching group of policemen with a speed and agility that belied its bulk. Fabel noted with relief that the gate was chained closed and padlocked. The Rottweiler snarled and barked viciously, the white teeth flashing. Olsen appeared again at the door of the workshop.
‘What do you want?’ His voice was barely audible at such a distance and over the continuing barking of the Rottweiler.
‘We have a warrant, Herr Olsen,’ said Fabel, holding up the document so that Olsen could see. ‘And we’d like to ask you a few questions.’ The dog was now leaping up at the gate, making it rattle and strain against the chain and padlock. ‘Would you please call off your dog, Herr Olsen? We need to ask you some questions.’
Olsen made a dismissive gesture and made to turn back into the doorway. Fabel nodded to Werner, who drew his pistol, snapped back its carriage and took aim at the Rottweiler’s head.
Olsen called out ‘Adolf!’ sharply and the dog obediently returned to where it had been lying, but remained on its feet, alert.
Anna cast a glance at Fabel. ‘Adolf?’
Fabel nodded to Werner, who responded by reholstering his gun. Olsen came up to the gate with a bunch of keys and unlocked the padlock. He swung open the gate and stood, sullenly, to one side.
‘Would you tether your dog, please, Herr Olsen?’ Fabel handed him a copy of the warrant. ‘And could we see your motorcycle, please? Your own machine. The index number is on the warrant.’
Olsen jerked his head in the direction of the workshop. ‘It’s over here. Forget about the dog. He won’t hurt anyone – unless I tell him to, that is.’
They made their way across to the building. Adolf watched them from his station, where Olsen had secured with a sturdy chain. The dog’s posture was tense, and it turned its gaze from the police officers to Olsen and back again, as if waiting for the order to attack.
The interior of the workshop was surprisingly tidy and bright. Rammstein or something similar roared coarsely from a CD player. Olsen turned the volume down but not off, as if to indicate that this was only a temporary interruption to his day. Fabel had expected the walls to be covered with the usual soft-core or even hard-core posters; instead the images were either aesthetic shots of motorcycles or technical illustrations. There was a row of motorbikes at the far end, a couple of which were clearly classics. The workshop had a concrete floor that Olsen obviously swept regularly and there was shelving along one wall on which parts were arranged in red plastic trays and boxes, each of which was neatly tagged. Fabel took a long look at Olsen. He was a big man in his late twenties, and would almost have been handsome had his features not been just that little bit too big and coarse. Added to that, he had bad, mottled skin. Fabel found the methodical ordering and labelling of parts at odds with Olsen’s brutish appearance. He leaned closer to the parts store and peered at the labels.
‘You looking for something special?’ Olsen’s voice was flat. He had clearly decided to be cooperative, but indifferent. ‘I thought you wanted to see my motorcycle?’
‘Yes . . .’ Fabel moved away from the stores rack. The writing on the labels was small and neat, but Fabel couldn’t have said whether it was the same as the tiny handwriting on the notes left with the bodies. ‘Yes, please.’
A large American motorcycle sat in the centre of the workshop, supported on a stand. Several parts had been removed from the engine and laid out on the floor. Again, Fabel sensed order and care in the way they had been placed on the concrete. Olsen had obviously been working on this bike when they’d arrived.
‘No, not that one. Over here.’ Olsen indicated a silver and grey BMW motorcycle. Fabel knew nothing about motorbikes but noted that the model was an R1100S. He had to admit there was a beauty to it: a sleek, elegant menace that made it look fast even when standing dormant – in an odd way it reminded Fabel of Olsen’s guard dog: full of pent-up power, even violence, aching to be released. He nodded to the two uniformed officers who pushed the bike from its space and out towards the waiting van.
‘What do you want it for?’ asked Olsen. Fabel ignored the question.
‘You know about Hanna Grünn? I take it you’ve heard?’
Olsen nodded. ‘Yeah, I heard.’ He feigned as much disinterest as he could muster.
‘You don’t seem particularly upset, Herr Olsen,’ Anna Wolff said. ‘I mean, I thought you were her boyfriend.’
Olsen spurted a laugh and did nothing to keep the raw bitterness from it. ‘Boyfriend? Not me. I was just a mug. One of Hanna’s many mugs. She dumped me months ago.’
‘Not according to the people who worked with her. They say you picked her up there on your motorcycle. Until quite recently.’
‘Maybe I did. She was the user. I was the used. What can I say?’
Fabel could see that Olsen clearly visited a gym regularly: there was great power in the shoulders and arms that bulged against the fabric of his overalls. It was not hard to imagine Olsen overpowering the smaller, slighter Schiller and killing him with two strokes of a sharp knife.
‘Where were you, Herr Olsen,’ asked Anna, ‘on Friday evening? The nineteenth – right up until Saturday morning?’
Olsen shrugged. You’re overdoing the disinterested thing, thought Fabel. You’ve got something to hide. ‘I went out for a drink. In Wilhelmsburg. Then I went home about midnight.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Der Pelikan. It’s a new bar in the Stadtmitte. I thought I’d go to check it out.’
‘Did anyone see you?’ asked Anna. ‘Anyone who could confirm that you were there?’
Olsen made a face that suggested Anna’s question was stupid. ‘There were hundreds of people. Like I said, it’s a new place and a lot of people obviously had the same idea as me, but I didn’t see anyone I know.’
Fabel made an almost apologetic gesture. ‘Then I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to come with us, Herr Olsen. You’re not giving us enough information to eliminate you from our inquiry.’
Olsen gave a resigned sigh. ‘Fair enough. But I can’t help it if I haven’t got an alibi. If I was guilty of something I would have made an effort to have a convincing cover story. Will this take long? I’ve got repairs I need to get out.’
‘We’ll keep you only for as long as it takes to get to the truth. Please, Herr Olsen.’
‘Can I lock up first?’
‘Of course.’
There was a rear door at the far side of the workshop. Olsen went over to it and turned the key in the lock. He then made his way out, followed by the three detectives. The dog was now asleep in the yard.
‘If I’m going to be away overnight I’ll have to arrange for the dog to be fed.’ He stopped suddenly and looked back at the workshop. ‘Shit. The alarm. I can’t leave the bikes in there without the alarm on. Can I go back and set it?’
Fabel nodded. ‘Werner, go with Herr Olsen, please.’
When they were out of earshot, Anna turned to Fabel. ‘Do you get the feeling we’re backing a loser here?’
‘I know what you mean. I get the feeling that the only thing Olsen is hiding is how upset he is about Hanna’s death . . .’
It was then that they heard a sudden urgent, throaty roar from inside the workshop. Anna and Fabel exchanged a look and started to run towards the building. The guard dog, startled from its sleep by the noise and its predator’s instinct stimulated by the two running police officers, started to thrash around rabidly, its vicious jaws snapping at the empty air. Fabel arced his run, hoping he had correctly estimated the limit of the Rottweiler’s restraining chain. They had covered about half the distance to the workshop when Olsen swept round its side on a huge red beast of a motorcycle. Both Fabel and Anna froze for a moment as the heavily muscled racing bike loomed towards them. Olsen’s head was encased in a red motorcycle helmet and the visor was down over the eyes, but Fabel recognised the oil-stained overalls. Olsen steered the bike like a weapon. The front wheel lifted slightly as he throttled the engine into an angry whine.
Adrenalin surged through Fabel’s body, slowing time. The bike had been travelling fast, but now it seemed to lunge forward with impossible acceleration, as if Fabel had focused on it with a fast zoom lens. Fabel and Anna threw themselves in opposite directions as the bike flashed between them. Fabel rolled over on the ground a couple of times before coming to rest. He had just raised himself on to one knee when something massive and dark collided with him. For a sliver of a second, Fabel thought Olsen had come back with the bike to finish them off, until he turned to see the massive jaws of the Rottweiler lunge towards him. Fabel jerked his head back as the dog snapped its teeth shut. He felt cold mucus and saliva on his cheek, but knew that the dog had missed. He rolled again, this time in the opposite direction, and felt a sharp pain as something clamped down hard and tore at his shoulder. Fabel kept rolling in a continuous movement and heard the dog’s vicious snarling turn to furious, frustrated barking as it reached the limit of its chain.
He pulled himself to his feet. Anna Wolff was also standing and looked over to Fabel to check that he was okay. Her poise was almost that of someone ready to start a race and Fabel nodded to her. She sprinted towards Fabel’s car and the green and white police van. The two uniformed officers stood as if stunned, each at either end of the motorcycle they had been loading into the back of the van. Anna Wolff’s run switched trajectory from Fabel’s car to the motorbike.
‘Is the key in it?’ she screamed at the two still-motionless SchuPos. Before they could answer she was over at the bike and shoved aside the SchuPo at its rear. Anna rolled the bike back from the tailgate of the van, started the engine and fired off in the direction Olsen had taken.
Fabel clutched his shoulder. The fabric of his Jaeger jacket had been ripped and the padding fluffed where the Rottweiler’s teeth had torn at it. His shoulder felt bruised, but the fabric of his polo-neck was intact and there was no trace of blood. He cast a resentful eye at the dog, which responded by straining at its chain, raising itself up and clawing the air impotently with its forelegs.
‘Over here!’ Fabel called to the two uniformed officers as he ran to the open door of the workshop. Werner was on the floor. He had pulled himself up into a half-sitting position and was using an already encrimsoned handkerchief in an unsuccessful attempt to staunch the flow of blood from the right side of his head. Fabel dropped down next to him and eased Werner’s hand and the blood-soaked handkerchief back from the wound. The gash was ugly, deep and raw, and the flesh of Werner’s bristle-cropped scalp was already distended by swelling. Fabel took his own unused handkerchief out and replaced Werner’s with it, pushing the injured man’s hand back to the wound. Then he placed a supporting arm around Werner’s shoulders.
‘Are you okay?’
Werner’s gaze was glassy and unfocused, but he managed a small nod that did nothing to reassure Fabel. The two uniformed officers were now in the workshop. Fabel jerked his head in the general direction of the workshop shelves.
‘You. See if you can find a first-aid box over there.’ He looked over to the other officer. ‘You. Radio for an ambulance.’ Fabel searched the workshop floor. The wrench was lying a metre or so away from Werner. It had a heavy, clumpy head and the adjusting barrel and jaws were coated in Werner’s blood. Fabel could see that the door at the far end of the workshop was lying open. The bastard, thought Fabel. Olsen was a cool one, all right. He had casually unlocked the door in front of them all, while pretending to secure the premises. He had calculated his performance exactly, guessing that his impatient and irritated cooperation would mean that only one Bulle would come back with him to ‘set the alarm’. Then he had hit Werner with the wrench and skipped out through the back door, where the red motorcycle must have been waiting. Fabel was sure he had not seen the red bike among the others in the workshop.
Werner groaned and moved as if trying to stand up. Fabel held him firm. ‘You stay where you are, Werner, until the ambulance gets here.’ He looked up at the uniformed officer who nodded.
‘It’s on its way, Herr Kriminalhauptkommissar.’
‘I wouldn’t like to be Olsen when you catch up with him, Chef,’ Werner said. Fabel was relieved to see that Werner’s eyes were less cloudy, but they were still far from alert.
‘You bet,’ said Fabel. ‘No one knocks a member of my team about.’
‘I don’t mean that.’ Werner smiled weakly and nodded towards Fabel’s ragged shoulder. ‘Isn’t that one of your favourite jackets?’
The last corner had been too fast. Anna was wearing her usual leather jacket, but her legs were protected only by the denim fabric of her jeans, and her knee had all but grazed the asphalt on the last turn. She knew that if Olsen knew as much about riding motorbikes as he did about repairing them, which was likely, then she would have to go full throttle even to catch sight of him. Anna had no helmet and didn’t even have her sunglasses with her, so she had to narrow her eyes against the blast of the wind as she accelerated along the straight. She crouched down behind the racing cowl to reduce her profile and to get as much protection from the wind as possible. The road ran alongside the refinery fence and was free of traffic so she opened the throttle full. She had burst out on to Hohe-Schaar-Strasse, causing a Merc to brake and swerve. She just caught a flash of red in the far distance as Olsen thundered across the bridge over the Reiherstieg and she set off in pursuit. The BMW roared beneath her and she measured out the distance to the next bend. Anna and her brother Julius had both had motorbikes and had often gone off on weekends together: to France, down to Bavaria and even once across to England. But then, as both their careers had become more demanding, the trips had become fewer and briefer. And when Julius had got married, they stopped completely. Anna had kept her bike until a year ago, when she had traded it in for a car. Now the only reminder of those days was the oversized leather jacket she still wore almost every day to work.
Anna slowed, easing on the brakes to get her speed down before the sharp left at the bottom of the stretch. She leaned into the bend, straightened out and let the g-force tug at her again as she accelerated. It was another long, straight expanse of road, and she saw the red smudge of Olsen’s motorcycle up ahead. She opened the throttle flat out and the BMW gave another surge. Anna’s mouth was dry and she knew that she was afraid. And she thrilled at the thought. She didn’t look at the gauge: she knew she was pushing the bike to near its 200 kilometres per hour limit and she didn’t want to know how near. She was closing the gap on Olsen: he obviously hadn’t checked in his rear-view mirror and was taking no risks. He would have expected them to give chase by car, and they would be no match for him in speed or manoeuvrability. The gap closed. Don’t check, she thought, don’t check yet, you fuck. There it was. An almost imperceptible movement of his red helmeted head and Olsen’s bike surged forward. He couldn’t pull away from Anna’s flat-out BMW, but he could maintain the gap until one of them made a mistake. It was like playing chicken, but while travelling in the same direction.
The next bend came and Olsen took it better and faster than Anna, opening up the gap again slightly. The industrial landscape that had surrounded them evaporated and they were now surrounded by mucky-looking fields. The road had a number of twists in it and Anna found herself taking many of them on the left, thankful that nothing was coming in the opposite direction.
Another sharp bend – this time Olsen misjudged it and only just made it, having to slow down to regain his line on the road. Anna closed the gap between them to twenty metres. Her universe had imploded until all that remained of it was the ribbon of road before her and the bike beneath her to which her body now felt indissolubly fused. It was as if her central nervous system was connected to the BMW’s electronics and every thought, every impulse, relayed itself automatically to the bike. Her focus was locked on Olsen’s red motorcycle ahead. Her concentration was total, trying to anticipate his next move.
This total concentration meant that she could not move a hand from the bike’s steering column. She couldn’t reach for her gun; she couldn’t phone in her position. She suddenly realised that she had also lost her bearings: she had been so focused on Olsen and the road immediately in front of her that she no longer knew exactly where they were. Her knowledge of Wilhelmsburg wasn’t great at the best of times, but the excitement and challenge of pursuit had made her oblivious to passing landmarks. The flat countryside around her and the direction they had taken meant that they were somewhere in Moorwerder: the odd rural tail of Wilhelmsburg that had somehow remained invisible to developers.
Another bend and another straight stretched ahead of them. Olsen’s bike surged as he accelerated to its maximum speed again. Anna felt her chest tighten when she realised that the open road was about to give way to a built-up area. A sign indicating that they were approaching Stillhorn flashed by and Anna realised that Olsen had looped them back round and he was heading for the A1 Autobahn. If he pushed things too far here, she would have to ease up and let him go, rather than put civilian lives at risk. But not yet.
The traffic started to thicken and Olsen and Anna weaved between cars and trucks, many of which had to brake hard with a blast of angry horns. The town began to take a more solid form as they thrust in from the outskirts towards the centre. Anna’s heart hammered in her chest. She became aware of a police siren somewhere behind her: she didn’t know whether it was back-up or simply the Stillhorn police responding to two motorcycles racing through the place. Whichever it was, she was glad to have some other police around for when she finally cornered Olsen. Up ahead, she saw him brake suddenly and turn, the bike almost sliding out from under him as he disappeared up a side street.
Anna missed the turn and had to loop round in the main street, incurring even more furious horn blasts from other drivers. As she entered the side street, she saw Olsen exit at the far end and once more she opened the throttle out full. The roar of the BMW bike reverberated in the narrow street and a couple of pedestrians had to flatten themselves against the buildings as she thundered past. This was getting too dangerous: she was going to lose Olsen unless she got him before he got further into town.
Anna had just about made it to the end of the street when a green and white patrol car, its lights flashing, turned into the street from the far end. It was clearly trying to block her exit and she gestured wildly for it to get out of the way. Instead the police car screeched to a halt and the doors flew open, a policeman rushing out on either side, their pistols drawn and aimed at Anna.
She braked hard and turned the bike broadside-on to the car. It slid from under her and she smashed into the asphalt, feeling her thigh burn as the denim was ripped from her leg. Anna rolled several times before she came to rest against a parked car. The bike slid, showering sparks as its metal ground against the road surface, until it slammed into the front of the police car.
A second patrol car pulled up behind Anna and the stunned SchuPos walked over to her, holstering their weapons as, still lying on the road and with one hand nursing her skinned thigh, she held up her bronze oval Kriminalpolizei shield. They helped her to her feet and one of them started to say something about not knowing she was a police officer in pursuit of a suspect.
Anna stared hard down the empty street to where Olsen had disappeared, then at the BMW motorbike jammed under the front of the police car. In a quiet, restrained voice, she asked if the two uniformed policemen could radio the direction her suspect had taken and see if they could get a helicopter to search for Olsen. Then, taking a deep breath, she screamed, harsh and shrill at the four SchuPos:
‘Fucking idiots!’