Fabel didn’t have to search for Heinz Schnauber’s apartment. He knew Eppendorf very well: the Institut für Rechtsmedizin was located at the Universitätklinikum Hamburg-Eppendorf, and Schnauber’s apartment was in one of the elegant nineteenth-century Wohnhäuser on the classy Eppendorfer Landstrasse.
Schnauber had been expecting him, but Fabel still held up his oval KriPo shield and ID when Schnauber came to the door. He was in his mid-fifties, not too tall, and slim without being slight. He showed Fabel into an elegant drawing room. The furnishings were in keeping with the period of the building, but were infinitely more comfortable than those in Vera Schiller’s Hausbruch mansion. Fabel never knew how to respond to gay men. He liked to think of himself as a sophisticated, modern and rational man, and he certainly had nothing against gays, but his Lutheran Frisian upbringing made him uncertain and awkward in their company. He became intensely annoyed with his own provincialism, especially when he noted that he had felt mild surprise that Schnauber was perfectly masculine in manner and speech. One thing that Fabel did notice was the intense pain in Schnauber’s eyes when he spoke about Laura von Klosterstadt. Whether Schnauber was gay or not, he clearly loved Laura. An almost paternal love.
‘She was my princess,’ Schnauber explained. ‘That was my name for her: “my little broken princess”. I can honestly say that she was the nearest thing to a daughter to me.’
‘Why “broken”?’
Schnauber smiled bitterly. ‘I’m sure you come across all kinds of dysfunctional families, Herr Kriminalhauptkommissar. In your line of work, I mean. Junkie parents, criminal kids, abuse, that kind of thing. But there are families that are adept at keeping their dysfunctionality under wraps. Their skeletons well and truly locked up in the cupboards. Well, when you have as much money and influence as the von Klosterstadts, you can afford a lot of cupboards.’
Schnauber sat on the sofa and invited Fabel to sit by indicating a large high-backed leather armchair.
‘I wanted to ask you about the party,’ said Fabel. ‘Fräulein von Klosterstadt’s birthday party, I mean. Did anything out of the ordinary happen? Or were there any gatecrashers?’
Schnauber laughed. ‘There are no gatecrashers at any of my functions, Herr Fabel.’ He emphasised the no. ‘And no, as far as I’m aware, nothing unusual or unpleasant happened. There was the predictable ice between Laura and her mother. And Hubert, as usual, was being a supercilious little shit. But other than that, the party went like a dream. We had a bunch of Americans over, an exclusive yachting-wear company from New England. They were interested in signing Laura up as their “face” – the Amis love her aristocratic European looks.’ The sadness in Schnauber’s expression deepened. ‘Poor Laura, every birthday party she had as a child was engineered to fit with her mother’s social agenda. Then, as an adult, they were excuses to promote her to potential clients. I felt rotten about that. But it was my job, as her agent, to promote her as widely and effectively as I could.’ His eyes locked with Fabel’s. There was an earnestness in the look, as if it were important to him that Fabel believed him. ‘I did everything I could to make those parties more than dressed-up promos, you know. I used to buy her little surprise presents for her birthday, get her a special cake, that kind of thing. I really did try to make the parties fun for her.’
‘I know. Herr Schnauber. I understand.’ Fabel smiled. He allowed Schnauber a moment with his thoughts before asking his next question. ‘You said the von Klosterstadts had lots of skeletons in the cupboard. What kind of skeletons? Was there something going on in Laura’s family?’
Schnauber walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a single malt with what Fabel considered to be a heavy hand. He tilted the bottle in Fabel’s direction.
‘No, thanks . . . Not when I’m on duty.’
Schnauber sat down again. He slugged down a considerable portion of the over-large Scotch. ‘You met the parents? And Hubert?’
‘Yes,’ said Fabel. ‘I did.’
‘The father’s a prick. He’s as impoverished in brains as he’s rich in cash. And he’s indiscreet. He has been screwing his way through the secretarial workforce of Hamburg for the last fifteen years. Mind you, I can understand that when you look at Margarethe, his wife.’
Fabel looked confused. ‘I would have said she was a very attractive woman. Clearly a beauty in her time, just as Laura was in hers.’
Schnauber gave a knowing smile. ‘There are times – most of the time, actually – when I am so damned grateful I’m gay. For a start it makes me immune to Margarethe’s witchcraft. But I can see she’s bewitched you already, Herr Fabel. Don’t for a minute think that all that sexual chemistry Margarethe exudes makes her a satisfying fuck. You can’t fuck her if you’ve got no balls and, all her life, Margarethe has specialised in emasculating men. That’s why I think Laura’s father dips his wick anywhere he gets a chance. Just to prove it’s still there.’ He took another gulp and emptied his glass. ‘But that’s not why I hate Margarethe von Klosterstadt. The reason I despise her is for the way she treated Laura. It was like she locked her up and starved her – starved her of love, of affection, of the thousand little things that bind mother and daughter.’
Fabel nodded pensively. None of this was of direct use to the investigation, but the whisky and his grief had loosened Schnauber’s rage at an unfair death which obviously had ended an unfair and unhappy life. Now the empty room and the empty view from the pool room started to make sense. Schnauber got up, went over to the cabinet once more and poured himself another drink. He paused for a moment, bottle suspended in one hand, glass in the other, and looked out of his window, along the Eppendorfer Landstrasse.
‘Sometimes I hate this city. Sometimes I hate being a North bloody German, with all of our tight-assed hang-ups and guilt trips. Guilt is a terrible, terrible thing, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose so,’ Fabel said. Schnauber wore a look that Fabel had seen so many times before in his career: that fidgety indecisiveness of someone loitering on the threshold of disclosing a confidence. Fabel let the silence lie, allowing Schnauber the time to decide to commit himself.
Schnauber turned from the window to face Fabel. ‘You’ll see it all the time, I suppose. As a policeman, I mean. I bet there are people out there who commit the most terrible crimes – murder, rape, child abuse – and who yet will have no sense of guilt.’
‘Unfortunately, yes, there are.’
‘That’s what pisses me off: that without a sense of guilt there is no punishment. Like some of these old Nazi bastards who refuse to see the wrong in what they did, while the next generation is crippled by guilt for something that happened before they were born. But then there’s the other side of the coin.’ Schnauber sat down on the couch again. ‘Those who do things that most of us would consider venial sins – trivial, even – yet who are haunted by guilt for the rest of their lives.’
Fabel leaned forward in his chair. ‘Was Laura haunted?’
‘By one of the many skeletons in the von Klosterstadt cupboards, yes. An abortion. Years ago. She was little more than a child herself. No one knows. It was clamped down on with a security that would make the Federal Chancellery look like open house. Margarethe arranged everything and made sure that it remained a secret. But Laura told me. It took her years before she did, and she broke her little heart when she did.’
‘Who was the father of the child?’
‘No one. That was his sin, to be a no one. So Margarethe made sure he disappeared from the scene. That, more than anything, is why I called her my “broken princess”. An hour-long medical procedure and a lifelong guilt.’ Schnauber took another swig. His eyes reddened as if stung, but not by the malt. ‘Do you know what makes me more sad than anything else, Herr Kriminalhauptkommissar? That, when this monster murdered Laura, she probably felt she deserved it.’