Maria, Werner, Henk Hermann and the two officers seconded from the Sexual Crimes SoKo turned up about ten minutes after Fabel and Anna arrived at Dirk Stellamanns’s Schnell-Imbiss snack stand down by the docks. The sky had dulled and the air felt thick and heavy, as if in a mood that could only be relieved by the explosive temper of a storm. Around the immaculately kept snack cabin and its handful of parasol-sheltered tables, a forest of shipyard cranes loomed into the steel grey sky. Dirk, himself an ex-Hamburg SchuPo, was, like Fabel, a Frisian and the two chatted briefly in their native Frysk before Fabel ordered coffees for his team.
They stood huddled around a couple of the chest-high tables and briefly discussed the unpromising state of the sky and whether they would finish their coffees before the storm broke. Then Fabel got down to business.
‘What does this mean? We clock up another victim, killed in the same way. But we find her lying on the grave of the mother of one of our suspects – albeit a lukewarm suspect. I’d like some opinions.’
‘Well,’ said Anna. ‘At least he’s saved me from chasing up the records office to check if Fendrich’s mother really is dead. The Friedhof authorities confirmed that Emelia Fendrich was, indeed, interred six months ago and the address listed for her is the same as her son’s, in Rahlstedt.’
Henk nodded. Rahlstedt was close to the Friedhof, bordering on Ohlsdorf. ‘So what do we do?’ he asked. ‘Do we bring Fendrich in for questioning about this latest killing?’
‘On what grounds?’ Anna made a face as she sipped the too-hot coffee. ‘That his mother really is dead and that he didn’t lie to us?’
Henk shrugged off Anna’s sarcasm. ‘Well, I suppose it could be a coincidence. But you do the arithmetic: two hundred and eighty thousand possible graves on which to dump the body, and it lands on one occupied by the mother of one of three suspects. And we know this guy is talking to us through every element he puts together in these scenes.’
‘We at least have to talk to Fendrich,’ said Maria. ‘We need to check out his whereabouts once we have ascertained the exact time of death.’
‘Holger Brauner squeezed an estimate out of our esteemed pathologist, Herr Doktor Möller, when he arrived on the scene,’ said Fabel. ‘Sometime between eight p.m. and midnight last night. And yes, we need to know where Fendrich was at that time. But we need to be extremely diplomatic about it. I don’t want him crying harassment again.’
‘I’ll deal with it,’ said Anna. Everyone stared at her. ‘What? I can be diplomatic.’
‘Okay,’ said Fabel, deliberately ladling uncertainty into his tone. ‘But don’t wind him up.’
‘Why not?’ asked Henk. ‘Fendrich’s got to be top of our list now. I mean, placing the body on his mother’s grave . . .’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Anna. ‘Paula Ehlers’s disappearance was widely reported. It was no secret that Fendrich was interviewed by police. We’ve got to remember that our killer more than likely abducted and killed Paula. So he’ll have followed developments after he took her. Anyway, I can tell you now, Fendrich won’t have an alibi.’
‘Why?’ asked Fabel.
‘Because he doesn’t know he needs one. And because he’s a loner.’
Fabel sipped his coffee and looked up at the sky. The sheet of steel grey was bruised with darker clouds. He could feel the pressure of the air, as he always could before a storm, manifest itself in a dull pain in his sinuses. ‘You really don’t think Fendrich did this, do you, Anna?’
‘I don’t think his relationship with Paula Ehlers was entirely straightforward. But no. He’s not our guy.’
Fabel massaged his sinuses with thumb and forefinger. ‘I think you’re right. I think we’re being deliberately diverted. Everything this guy is doing is connected. Each killing links one fairy tale with another. He’s dancing with us. But he’s taking the lead. There’s an order in what he’s doing. He’s as organised as he is creative, and he’s had this all worked out well in advance. I get the feeling we’re nearing the end. He started off with Paula Ehlers, where he gave us nothing but used her identity for his second murder, three years later. Then, with Martha Schmidt, the girl in Blankenese, all he gave us was the false identity. It was only after the Laura von Klosterstadt killing that we saw that he had placed Martha Schmidt “beneath” Laura. As he’s gone on he’s given us more and more. He wants us to guess what he’s going to do next, but he needs time to do it. That’s why he’s trying to point us towards Fendrich.’
‘What if you’re wrong, Chef?’ Werner leaned his elbows on the Schnell-Imbiss table. ‘What if Fendrich is our guy and he wants us to stop him? What if he’s telling us that he’s the killer?’
‘Then Anna will get the truth when she and Hermann question him.’
‘I’d rather go alone, Chef,’ said Anna. Henk Hermann didn’t look either surprised or annoyed.
‘No, Anna,’ said Fabel. ‘Fendrich is still a suspect and you’re not going into his house alone.’
‘Don’t worry, Frau Wolff,’ said Henk. ‘I’ll let you do all the talking.’
‘In the meantime,’ continued Fabel, ‘we need to analyse the messages this guy is sending us.’ The sky flashed behind the cloud, somewhere to the north. It took several seconds for the hard rumbling wave of thunder to roll over them. ‘I think we should get back to the Präsidium.’
The first thing that awaited Fabel on his return to the Präsidium was a summons to the office of Kriminaldirektor Horst van Heiden. It wasn’t unexpected. The media was now running headlines and lead stories about the ‘Fairy Tale Killer’ and Fabel knew that reporters and photographers were starting to circumvent the Presseabteilung and were harassing van Heiden directly. One TV crew had gone so far as to doorstep the Kriminaldirektor on his way from the Präsidium: something unthinkable even ten years before. The ‘Anglo-Saxon Model’ seemed to be taking an ever greater hold on Germany, moving it away from its traditions of courtesy and respect. And, as always, the media was at the vanguard of the change. Van Heiden was unhappy and needed someone to blame. As he entered the Kriminaldirektor’s office, Fabel braced himself.
As it turned out, van Heiden was more desperate for a morsel of good news than he was angry. He reminded Fabel of himself at the last scene of crime, almost pleading Holger Brauner to turn up some clue. Van Heiden was not alone in his office when Fabel arrived. Innensenator Hugo Ganz was there, as was Leitender Oberstaatsanwalt Heiner Goetz, the state prosecutor for Hamburg. Goetz stood up and smiled warmly as Fabel came in and shook his hand. Fabel had crossed swords with Goetz on many occasions, mainly because Goetz was a tenacious and methodical prosecutor who refused to cut corners. Despite Fabel’s occasional frustration with Goetz they had between them secured a great many sound convictions and they had built up a strong mutual respect and something approaching friendship.
Ganz also shook Fabel’s hand, but with significantly less warmth. Aha, thought Fabel, the honeymoon is over. He guessed that his visit to Margarethe von Klosterstadt had ruffled aristocratic feathers and Ganz had received a call. He was right.
‘Herr Hauptkommissar,’ Ganz got in before even van Heiden could speak. ‘I believe you took it on yourself to re-interview Frau von Klosterstadt?’
Fabel didn’t answer but glanced questioningly at van Heiden, who didn’t respond.
‘I’m sure you appreciate,’ Ganz continued, ‘that this is a most distressing time for the von Klosterstadt family.’
‘It’s also a distressing time for the Schmidt and Ehlers families. I take it you don’t have a problem with me re-interviewing them?’
Ganz’s scrubbed pink face became pinker. ‘Now listen, Herr Fabel, I have already told you that I am a friend of the von Klosterstadt family of some standing –’
Fabel cut him off. ‘And I have to tell you that that is of absolutely no interest to me. If you are here in your capacity as Hamburg’s Innensenator and you wish to discuss this case objectively and in its entirety, then I’d be delighted to do so. But if you’ve been sent here because Frau von Klosterstadt’s nose is out of joint because I had to ask a few personal questions about her daughter, then I suggest you leave now.’
Ganz stared at Fabel with something approaching fury in his eyes. Impotent fury, because he couldn’t deny what Fabel had said. He stood up, turned towards van Heiden and blustered: ‘This is outrageous. I will not sit here and be lectured on protocol by one of your junior officers.’
‘Herr Erster Hauptkommissar Fabel is hardly a junior officer,’ was all van Heiden said. Ganz snatched up his briefcase and stormed out of the office.
‘For God’s sake, Fabel,’ said van Heiden, once Ganz was gone. ‘You could at least try to make my life a little bit easier. It doesn’t do the Polizei Hamburg any favours if you make an enemy of the Innensenator of Hamburg.’
‘I’m sorry, Herr Kriminaldirektor, but what I said is true. Ganz has been sent here because I found out that Laura von Klosterstadt had an abortion ten years ago, arranged by her, to be honest, cold-hearted bitch of a mother. She became pregnant by Leo Kranz, the photographer. But before he was famous, so he didn’t register on Margarethe von Klosterstadt’s social radar.’
‘Is that relevant, do you think?’ asked Heiner Goetz.
‘Not directly. It may, however, suggest that the killer had an intimate knowledge of the von Klosterstadt family. It’s just that the whole “Rapunzel” thing involves pregnancy and illegitimacy. And I reserve the right to pursue all and any leads.’
‘Understood, Herr Fabel,’ said van Heiden, gloomily. ‘But you could perhaps try to distinguish between suspects and senior Hamburg politicians when it comes to your approach. Anyway, what do we have on this latest killing? This is fast becoming the number-one Hamburg news story.’
Fabel ran through what they had to date, including the killer’s choice of grave and why Fabel thought it was a deliberate smokescreen.
‘I think you’re right not to pursue Fendrich too aggressively,’ said Heiner Goetz. ‘I checked up with the Schleswig-Holstein Staatsanwaltschaft. They never had anything more than a police officer’s suspicion against Fendrich. I don’t want to end up with him pursuing us through the courts for harassment.’
Van Heiden sat back in his chair and placed his hands, fingers splayed and arms locked, on the vast cherrywood expanse of his desk. It was an intense posture, as if he were prepared for some dynamic physical action. He looked at Fabel, but it was as if he were somewhere and some time else.
‘When I was a child, I used to love the Grimms’ fairy tales. “The Singing, Ringing Tree”, that kind of thing. I think the thing I liked most was that they were always much darker than the usual children’s tales. More violent. That’s why kids liked them.’ Van Heiden leaned forward. ‘You’ve got to find him, Fabel. And soon. At the rate this maniac is killing, we don’t have the luxury of weeks or months to track him down. He’s escalating far too fast.’
Fabel shook his head. ‘No . . . He’s not escalating, Herr Kriminaldirektor. This is no feeding frenzy. All these killings have been worked out in detail – maybe years in advance. He’s working to a pre-planned timetable.’
Fabel stopped speaking, but his tone suggested he hadn’t said all he had to say. Van Heiden picked up on it.
‘Okay, Fabel – let’s hear it.’
‘It’s just a feeling I’ve got. Another reason we have to get him quickly. I think what we’ve seen so far is the prelude. I have this feeling that he’s building up to something big. A finale. Something spectacular.’
Once he was back in his own office, Fabel took out his sketch pad again. He turned over from the page on which he had summarised the inquiry to date and took a fresh, blank page. It looked up at him, inviting him to commit some new thought process to paper. Along the top he wrote the names of each of the fairy tales so far imitated by the killer. Underneath he wrote down words he associated with each tale. As he predicted, the closer he came to the most recent murder, Little Red Riding Hood, the more he wrote down: themes, names, relationships. Grandmother. Stepmother. Mother. Witch. Wolf. He was still still working his way through the tales when his desk phone rang.
‘Hello, Chef. It’s Maria. Could you meet me at the Institut für Rechtsmedizin? The Wasserschutzpolizei have just pulled a body out of the Elbe. And Chef, I’d cancel any plans for lunch.’
Everyone who dies in Hamburg without an appointment ends up in the mortuary of the Institut für Rechtsmedizin. All sudden deaths for which a doctor will not issue a death certificate are brought there. A body that had been weighted down and thrown into the Elbe was a prime candidate for accommodation.
As soon as Fabel entered the mortuary, he felt the usual leaden swell of revulsion and dread. There was always that smell. Not just the smell of death, but of disinfectant, of floor cleaner: a nauseous cocktail that was never overpowering, but it was always there. An attendant led Fabel, Maria and the Kommissar from the Wasserschutzpolizei patrol boat that had found the body through into the chill mortuary, lined with steel cabinets. Fabel noted with unease that the harbour policeman looked decidedly reluctant as they headed towards where the attendant had stopped, resting his hand on the handle of the appropriate cabinet. The harbour cop had, of course, already seen the body when it was fished out of the river and was clearly not too happy about coming face to face with it again.
‘This one’s a bit stinky.’ The mortuary attendant gave his warning a moment to sink in; then he turned the handle, opened the door and slid out the metal tray that held the body. A stench washed over them in a nauseating wave.
‘Shit!’ Maria took a step back and Fabel was aware of the Wasserschutz Polizeikommissar tensing beside him. For his part, Fabel fought to keep control of his disgust; and of his stomach, which lurched heavily at the sight and smell of the corpse before him.
A naked man lay on the body tray. He would have been about one metre seventy-five tall. It was difficult to tell what his build, or even ethnicity, had been, because his body had distended and discoloured in the water. Most of his swollen torso was covered in ornate tattoos that had paled slightly as they had been pulled across the stretched, blotched skin. The tattoos mainly consisted of intricate patterns and designs, rather than the usual naked women, hearts, skulls, daggers and dragons. A deep indentation ran all around the bloated torso, like a massive crease, and the over-tight skin had ruptured. The dead man had long, greying hair that had been pulled back from the face and tied into a ponytail.
His throat had been cut. Fabel could see vestiges of the straight lateral slash, but elsewhere along the cut the skin and flesh looked torn.
But it was in the devastation of the face that the true horror lay. The flesh around the eye sockets and the mouth was ripped and ragged. Bone gleamed through flaps of empurpled skin and pink flesh. The victim’s teeth grinned a lipless grin.
‘My God . . . What the hell has happened to his face?’ asked Fabel.
‘Eels,’ said the Wasserschutz Kommissar. ‘They always go for wounds first. That’s why I’m guessing that his eyes had been removed before he was dumped. The eels did the rest. Simply found the easiest way into the head and a prime source of protein. Same with the throat wound.’
Fabel recalled reading The Tin Drum by Günter Grass: the description of a fisherman using a dead horse’s head to fish for eels, pulling the head from the water, its eye sockets writhing with eels. Fabel imagined the dead man being hauled up, the eels clinging on to their precious source of food; Fabel’s nausea intensified. He closed his eyes for a moment and focused on forcing back the rising feeling in his chest before speaking again.
‘The deformation around the torso. Any idea what caused it?’
‘Yes,’ said the harbour Kommissar. ‘There was a rope tied tightly around the body. We retrieved quite a bit of it. Our guess is that a weight was attached before he was thrown into the water. It looks as if the rope broke or the weight separated from it somehow. That’s what brought him up to the surface.’
‘And he was like this? Naked?’
‘Yep. No clothes, no ID, nothing.’
Fabel nodded to the mortuary attendant who slid the corpse back into its cabinet and slammed the door shut. Its ghost still haunted the mortuary in the form of the stench of putrefaction.
‘If you don’t mind,’ he said to the other two officers, ‘I think we should step outside.’
Fabel led Maria and the harbour policeman out into the fresh air of the car park. No one spoke until they reached the open, and only then after they had each taken a deep, cleansing breath.
‘God, that was bad,’ said Fabel at last. He snapped open his cell phone and phoned Holger Brauner. He explained about their find and asked if Brauner could do a DNA check to see if the spare pair of eyes they’d found in the Friedhof matched the body from the river. After he hung up, he thanked the harbour policeman for his time. When they were alone, he turned to Maria.
‘You know what the rope and the weight means?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘We weren’t supposed to find this one.’
‘Exactly. Let’s assume for a moment that we do get a match between this body and our spare pair of eyes. It makes this victim nothing more than a donor – he was killed simply for his eyes.’
‘I suppose that’s possible.’
‘Maybe. But does having a second pair of eyes to “cast on Gretel” enhance the tableau that much? Why not just use Ungerer’s eyes? Or, if you’re going to have more than one pair of eyes, why add just one more pair? Why not half a dozen?’
Maria frowned. ‘What’s your point?’
‘Simply this. I’m right back to where I was when we had Olsen as our prime suspect – when we had a motive for him killing Grünn and Schiller, but for none of the others.’ He indicated the Institut für Rechtsmedizin with a nod of his head. ‘That man in there didn’t just die for his eyes. He was killed for a reason. He’s a diversion that our guy was forced to take. And that’s why he didn’t want – or need – us to find the body.’
‘Why?’ Maria’s frown still didn’t lift. ‘Why did he have to kill this guy?’
‘Maybe he knew who was committing these murders. Or maybe he simply had a piece of information that the killer didn’t want us to get to.’ Fabel rested his hands on his hips and turned his face up to the grey sky. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his sinuses again. ‘Get the SpuSi guys to see if they can get a decent fingerprint and arrange for some photographs of his tattoos. I don’t care if we visit every tattooist in Hamburg . . . we have to get an identity for him.’
As they drove back to the Präsidium, the storm, which had lurked broodily all day in the heavy air, broke.