killing them to keep us both in work.’ He slid between the sheets. They were cool and clean on his skin. ‘By the way, have you seen my MP3 player lying around?’
‘No. You’ve already asked me. How did it go with Renate?’
Fabel sighed. ‘How does it ever go with Renate? She was as bitter as hell, as always. I don’t know how the hell she has managed to turn the whole situation around so that she’s the injured party. It was Behrens who dumped her. Not me.’
‘It’s a woman thing.’ Susanne still had her back to him. ‘If you can’t find the man to blame, find a man to blame. I hold you responsible for Hans Zimmerman not choosing me as his partner for our kindergarten parade.’
‘I knew there was something,’ said Fabel. ‘Anyway, Gabi is thinking about joining the police. Renate blames me and wants me to talk her out of it.’
‘Will you?’
‘No. Not talk her out of it. Give her an informed picture, yes. Talk her out of it, no.’
‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’ Susanne’s voice was thick with sleep, but Fabel slid close to her, put his arms around her, cupped her breast in his hand.
‘I’d like to make up for the kindergarten parade…’ he said.
6
Jespersen had been relieved that the seat next to him on the plane was unoccupied. Jespersen liked to use travel time to sort things out in his head: to review, to do a bit of broader thinking. The Scandinavian Airlines flight to Hamburg’s Fuhlsbuttel Airport from Copenhagen had only taken a little over fifty minutes but, during that time, Jens Jespersen had been able to study the information he had obtained through Europol on Erster Kriminalhauptkommissar Jan Fabel.
Most of the information related to the consultative role Fabel was adopting for cases outside the Polizei Hamburg’s jurisdiction. He was being touted by Europol as a major expert in complex murder investigations. The ‘go-to guy’ as the Americans would call him. Jespersen didn’t like Americans much. He liked Germans less.
As the seat-belt lights came on and Jespersen put the file back in his case, he reluctantly admitted to himself that the German was probably the best person to talk to. Talk to about what? It suddenly struck Jespersen that he had come a long way to meet with the German and he didn’t really have that much to discuss. All he had was a remark made by a drug trafficker during a sting operation; a couple of potentially connected events that may be nothing more than so many coincidences; and a legend: a vague and most likely exaggerated spook-story from the dark ages of the Cold War.
After touchdown at Hamburg Fuhlsbuttel, Jespersen called the Politigard headquarters in Copenhagen and was put through to his office. He spoke to Harald Tolstrup, his deputy. Tolstrup confirmed that Jespersen was booked into a hotel on the Alter Wall, in Hamburg’s city centre. Tolstrup also said that Jespersen’s boss, Politidirektor Vestergaard, wanted to speak with him as soon as possible and hadn’t sounded happy. After Jespersen hung up from his call to the Politigard, he phoned the Hamburg Police Presidium and asked in English to speak to Jan Fabel. He was told that Fabel was in a meeting: Jespersen gave his cellphone number and asked that Fabel call him back.
After Jespersen checked into the hotel he took a walk around the city centre. It was cold but bright and he looked up at the pale blue of the sky. It was the same sky as in Copenhagen. As in Stockholm or Oslo. Hamburg’s light was a Nordic light and Jespersen found it strange to be in a foreign country amongst people he disliked and yet to see the same sky, the same light, the same architecture, the same faces in the street. He knew that the illusion would have been dispelled if he had travelled even a little further south. But here, in Hamburg, and totally despite himself, Jespersen felt at home. He walked along Grosse Bleichen and found himself in front of an impressive red- brick building which announced itself with a plaque as the Hanseviertel. Jespersen went in, partly motivated by curiosity: he had come across the word ‘Hanseviertel’ once before, when he had visited Bergen in Norway. Bergen had been part of the Hanseatic League and there had been a part of the city where German traders had settled in the Middle Ages called Tyskebryggen, the German Wharf: Bergen’s own Hanseviertel. This Hanseviertel in Hamburg, however, was something completely different: behind the red brick lay connecting avenues and galleries of shops, all now covered over by glass. It looked like the ideal place to get some lunch and, while he was at it, he would pick up a small gift for his twelve-year-old niece. Everywhere he went he would find some small soft toy for Mette, his younger brother’s daughter. She was beginning to pretend she was too old for such nonsense, but he could tell she liked it. He found a small shop in the arcade selling gifts that were a little more upmarket and unusual than the usual tourist stuff. He bought a small stuffed bear for Mette: it was dressed in a blue jacket with ‘Hamburg’ embroidered on the back and was wearing a Prinz Heinrich fisherman’s hat. Jespersen found a pleasant-looking cafe and ordered a light lunch. He sat eating slowly and watching Germans go by.
Germans. Jens Jespersen had been a police officer for twenty-three years. His father had been a police officer before him. And his grandfather before him. It was a tradition he was immensely proud of. And in that tradition lay the roots of his dislike of Germans. But now was not the time to think of such things.
A female voice asked him something in German. Jespersen looked up: the woman was in her thirties with light blonde hair, pale skin over high cheekbones and bright blue eyes.
‘I’m sorry?’ he said in English.
‘May I sit here?’ she repeated in English.
He nodded, moving his coat to allow her to sit. She was about to say something when Jespersen’s cellphone rang. He answered it without excusing himself.
‘Herr Jespersen? This is Principal Chief Commissar Fabel, Polizei Hamburg Murder Commission. I got your message. I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you earlier but I was kind of tied up with something. We’ve just had a major case kick off — I’m sure you know the drill. Anyway, I believe you would like to arrange a meeting.’
Jespersen, whose English was excellent, was surprised to hear the German speak in perfect and, to Jespersen’s ears, unaccented English.
‘Yes, Herr Fabel. I have a few things to check out so I’ll be in Hamburg for a few days, but I’d like to talk to you as soon as possible. Would you be able to see me tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow might be difficult. Like I say, we’ve just launched a major inquiry. Give me a moment…’ There was a short silence. ‘How about four-thirty at the Presidium?’
‘I’ll be there,’ said Jespersen.
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, Herr Jespersen, but when you say you have a few things to check out, does that mean you are conducting part of an investigation here in Hamburg?’
‘I see what you’re getting at…’ Jespersen managed to get just the right element of irritation into his voice. ‘If I were conducting an investigation, I would have gone through the appropriate channels. No, Mr Fabel, your toes are not being trodden on. I’ll see you tomorrow at four-thirty.’ He snapped his cellphone shut. Bloody Germans: was there one who wasn’t a born bureaucrat?
‘Are you English?’ the woman sitting next to him asked after he had pocketed his phone.
‘No.’ He smiled wearily, not really trying to conceal his disappointment at having to make small talk. ‘I’m Danish.’
‘No! I’m half Danish,’ she said fluently and enthusiastically in his native tongue, but with a heavy German accent. ‘My mother is from Faborg — you know, on Fyn — but I was brought up here. My father is from Hamburg.’
‘You don’t say,’ Jespersen said. The woman was clearly delighted at the happenstance that she should sit next to a Dane; Jespersen despaired at it. He liked to have time to think things through. But, there again, she was an attractive woman.
‘Are you here on holiday?’ she asked.
‘No. Business,’ said Jespersen. He looked at the young woman more closely. She certainly had the colouring of a Dane. Something about her reminded him of Karin. Her almost white blonde hair had been gathered up by a band but protested in a torrent of kinks and curls. Jespersen smiled, this time not wearily.
She really was very attractive.
