eased her hand up the back of her boot and felt the wet leather. When she got back to the apartment she was going to have to stitch the wound, which, given its position, would not be easy.
Leaning her head back against the seat, Anke closed her eyes for a moment. She turned suddenly when she heard someone knocking on the side window.
Anke smiled and slid the window open. She assessed the situation: young policewoman — very young — alone, foot patrol, inexperienced. Every one else hunting the killer from the Alsterpark.
‘Is this your vehicle?’
‘Yes, it is. Is there a problem?’
‘You’ve been parked here too long. I’ll have to give you a ticket. What’s your name, please?’
You’re checking my name against the database, thought Anke. You’ve already radioed in the index number. It’ll be flagged up later. Her identity, her address, all compromised.
‘Jana Eigen.’ She gave the name she’d been living under for the last ten years. A name that had become as real to her as Anke Wollner. Now it was lost.
‘May I see your ID card and driver’s licence?’ The young policewoman was trying hard to project authority. Anke estimated she was no older than twenty-three; pretty, with dark hair under the police cap. Her blue police jacket was a size too big for her, giving her an almost childlike appearance.
‘Sure,’ said Anke, reaching into the shoulder bag sitting next to her on the passenger seat. ‘Here it is.’
Anke’s first shot hit the policewoman in the throat. She dropped beside the car. Anke swung the door open but it jammed against the policewoman’s body and she had to squeeze out, hurting her leg as she did so. The young policewoman was face down, the oversized blue waterproof jacket bunched up like a turtle’s carapace with the word POLIZEI emblazoned on it in white. A sickeningly wet gurgling sound issued from her and she was trying to crawl away. Anke fired a second round into the back of the policewoman’s head and she lay still. There were screams from onlookers and Anke knew that she’d have to move fast. The policewoman’s body obstructed the car so Anke had to drag it out into the road. Then she jumped back in the car and sped off.
She would have to dump the car. She would have to find a safe place.
4
It was pretty much what Fabel had expected. Van Heiden had not been angry, nor had he lectured Fabel, but he had communicated, more by silences than words, that things could not be worse and, if the axe fell, then it would fall squarely on Fabel’s neck.
What hadn’t helped had been the media attention. Accounts of the shootings on Harvestehuder Weg were repeated on every news bulletin, on every channel, and not just in Hamburg. The Presidium was like a medieval castle under siege, with satellite-dish-topped vans parked outside and TV crews pointing their cameras at the building. Fabel even got a message that Sylvie Achtenhagen had been trying to get in touch with him.
‘She said it’s very urgent,’ the cop at reception had told him.
‘I bet she did,’ said Fabel, scrunching up the note, leaning over the reception desk and dropping it into the wastebasket.
After leaving van Heiden, Fabel phoned Werner at the hospital.
‘How’s Anna?’
‘Still in theatre,’ said Werner. ‘I’ll phone as soon as she comes out and I hear anything. Try not to worry, Jan. She’s tougher than either of us.’
After Fabel hung up, there was a knock on the door and Dirk Hechtner came in.
‘You okay, Chef? I mean-’
‘I know what you mean. I’m okay. Thanks for asking. What have you got?’
‘The gun recovered from Margarethe Paulus’s apartment — we’ve traced it. It used to be owned by a Zlatko Ljubi i c, a Croatian. And listen to this: Ljubi i c was arrested during the same sting as Goran Vuja i c. He was Vuja i c ’s bodyguard.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘I’m chasing that up,’ said Hechtner. ‘The Danish police had to let him go: it’s not illegal to be a gangster’s bodyguard unless you can be nailed for doing something illegal yourself. He worked in Copenhagen as a security guard for a while. After that, I don’t know yet. But it’s a hell of a coincidence that there’s a Vuja i c connection after all.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah — I checked out Svend Langstrup, Gina Bronsted’s head of security; no form. But he’s a former officer in the J?gerkorpset, that’s the Danish special forces. He has dual nationality: Danish and German. Langstrup ran his own security company for a while — and yes, I’m way ahead of you, I’m checking with the Danish police to see if it was his company that Zlatko Ljubi i c worked with. From what I can see he’s on a huge salary. He lives out in Blankenese.’
‘Okay, keep on it. I’m heading down to the Ops Room.’
The Operations Room was more crowded than usual and Fabel’s heart sank when he saw both van Heiden and Police President Steinbach amongst the other officers. For Fabel, having his superiors present when he was trying to run an inquiry was like having a teacher peer over your shoulder while you did your homework.
But he could tell by van Heiden’s face that his bad-news day had just got worse.
‘We’ve lost another one,’ said van Heiden. ‘The bitch has killed another police officer.’
‘Who?’
‘A young female officer called Annika Busing. She was twenty-four, Jan.’
‘Where?’
‘Rotherbaum.’ Henk Hermann joined them. His long, thin, freckled face pale and grim beneath a mop of red hair. He checked his notebook. ‘The car was a black Lexus GS450h saloon. Six months old. The owner is a Jana Eigen. She lives in Blankenese.’
‘Wealthy.’
‘Looks like it. And not at home.’
‘Okay, Henk, you and Dirk take the Rotherbaum murder. I’ll head over to the address we’ve got for Frau Eigen.’ He turned to van Heiden. ‘I’ve got all of my team committed. I could do with someone to come to Blankenese with me.’
‘I’ll do it,’ said van Heiden.
‘Do you have a service weapon?’
‘Of course I do…’ said van Heiden. Then, less indignantly: ‘But it’s in my locker. I’ll go get it.’
‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to take Karin Vestergaard along with us. I’ve sent a car to pick her up. She has a vested interest in seeing this concluded. We’re not the only ones to have lost colleagues.’
Fabel was aware of another figure at his shoulder. He turned to see Hans Gessler of the corporate crime division.
‘I heard about Anna, Jan,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry. How is she?’
‘I’m waiting for word.’
‘I just wanted to let you know that I’ve been through Frolov’s information on Gina Bronsted and NeuHansa. We’ve got enough there to nail her — but not for these murders. There’s no direct evidential link. But she’s toast as far as tax evasion, falsification of permits and fraud are concerned.’
‘I want her. There’s got to be something that ties her in with ordering these Valkyrie hits.’
‘Not from her end. Maybe if we could find Drescher’s bank accounts
… I’ll look into it, but it could be a numbered account in Switzerland.’
‘See what you can do, Hans. Give me something. Anything.’
5
