Helmut Kittel was a wreck of a man. He was tall, but his shoulders had become rounded and his chest hollowed. His skin tone was a jaundiced grey and his hair thin and dull. He had followed Sylvie out of the Cathedral Treasury and had sat next to her on the bench in the gardens by the cathedral.
‘I got your message,’ said Sylvie.
‘I knew you would.’ He smiled.
‘Did you see the news? About Gina Bronsted?’
‘I did.’ His breathing was wet and rattling.
‘You realise that it was the work of the third so-called Valkyrie — the one whose name you say you know. I admit that the information is now very valuable. You have proof of the identity of the third Valkyrie?’
Kittel broke into a spasm of coughing: deep, racking coughs that made his eyes water. After it had passed he leaned back against the bench, breathing hard and deep as if at some extreme, oxygen-deprived altitude.
‘Cancer?’ Sylvie asked without malice.
He shook his head. ‘Emphysema. Too many cigarettes. The cold seems to make it worse.’
‘Well, the information you’ve got is newsworthy. Very newsworthy. And the more newsworthy, the more we’ll pay for it.’
He smiled bitterly. ‘And you make the news, don’t you?’
‘Do you have the file or not?’ Sylvie failed to keep the impatience from her voice.
‘There were twelve girls to begin with,’ Kittel said. ‘They narrowed it down to three. But then, in the final stages of training, they had to reject one of the final three. Liane Kayser. They realised they couldn’t rely on her. She had sociopathic tendencies, they said. You couldn’t tell to look at her, to talk to her, apparently; but they realised that she was incapable of serving anyone but herself. That she would do anything, kill anyone, just so that she would achieve what she wanted to achieve.’ He turned to her and smiled. ‘No, Frau Achtenhagen, I don’t have the file. There is no file other than the photographs I sent you. I’m the only person who knows who Liane Kayser is.’
‘I see,’ she said, still smiling and letting her eyes range over his face as if she were trying to read it.
‘I saw you interviewed once, on TV,’ he continued breathily. ‘You were talking about being a television journalist today. How it’s not enough to be passive, waiting for events or for a story to land in your lap. I remember you said that you have to make the news yourself, almost. The Angel of St Pauli case really did make your name, didn’t it? No one had the inside angle on it that you seemed to have; always one step ahead of the others. You really did make the news, didn’t you
… Liane? I know you’re the Angel of St Pauli. And I know you did it to boost your TV career. I’m also pretty sure it was Anke who carried out the last series of killings. I’m guessing that Drescher told her to make it look like it was your work. That you were back again.’
‘So where is the file?’
‘I told you. There is no file.’ Kittel laughed and his laughing caused him to cough violently again, clasping his handkerchief to his mouth. When the coughing subsided and he took the handkerchief away, she noticed it was speckled bright red. ‘We both knew it would come to this, Liane. The fact that you’re here. The fact that you knew where to come when you saw the announcement in Muliebritas.’
‘Does it hurt terribly?’ she asked, looking at the blood-flecked handkerchief.
‘Sometimes.’ He nodded and the promise and the fear of the pain burned in his eyes. ‘They destroyed all the files. The only one who knows about your real identity is me.’ He smiled. No arrogance, just a sad, almost childish smile. ‘I knew you’d come. I knew you’d find me. I don’t want to die fighting for breath. I want the pain and the fear to go away. I don’t want to be afraid any more.’
Sylvie smiled and gently pushed back a strand of hair from his damp brow. She leaned close and whispered into his ear. ‘I know, Helmut. I know… It was nice to hear you call me Liane. No one has called me that in years. Now, no one ever will. Thank you for that, Helmut.’
As she spoke to him soothingly and without menace, Kittel felt something push upwards into his chest. He felt suddenly breathless in a way that he had not before. But there was little pain. He stared into her eyes, first in surprise but without fear, then with something that looked like gratitude.
‘It’s better this way, Helmut,’ she said, easing the long needle out from under his ribcage and allowing his heart to rupture. ‘No more pain. No more sweaty, frightened nights racked with coughing. I’ve taken away your pain for ever.’
Sylvie Achtenhagen checked that there was no one around and stood up swiftly, walking off towards the park exit. Behind her a thin middle-aged man sat on the bench, staring, unblinking, past the leafless trees, across to the double braced spires of the Martinikirche.
