‘That’s right.’
‘So either he tore along Herbertstrasse and out the other end before you got there, or he cut through the side alley at number seven and out past the erotic-art museum. That looks pretty planned to me — like he knew where he was going.’
‘He probably didn’t. Like I say, I still think it was all spur-of-the-moment stuff.’
Martina went through the evening in detail: exact times, whom Westland had talked to, what he had talked about, how the concert had gone. Martina became, once more, the police officer and without prompting gave Fabel all the information he needed. Westland had made two calls before the concert: one to his wife, the second to his accountant regarding an investment or deal he was involved in.
‘He spent some time alone in his dressing room before going on stage,’ explained Martina. ‘It’s possible he took or made calls then, on his cellphone. There was no contact that I’m aware of after the performance, other than a brief call to the woman who was organising the concert. She was the one who wanted him to attend the post- concert party with Hamburg’s good and great. I got the impression she — I mean the organiser — wasn’t too chuffed when he cried off. After all, it was the whole point of the exercise: to raise awareness of the charity and after all that effort he couldn’t be bothered doing a simple meet-and-greet afterwards. He was more interested in getting to the Reeperbahn.’
‘We’ll check his cellphone,’ said Fabel.
‘Oh, didn’t you know? His mobile’s been swiped. Wallet, too. And he had a diary — like a mini-organiser — that he always had with him. Whoever killed him nicked that as well.’
‘So it could be a robbery?’
Martina gave a bitter laugh. ‘No. But it could be the killer trying to disguise it as a robbery. The theft was amateur. The killing’s the work of art.’
They talked for a while longer. Professional though her report was, there was nothing in what Martina had to say that offered any substantial leads.
‘Not much help, is it?’ Martina read his mind.
‘Not much. But there again, this whole thing could simply be what it seems — a random senseless attack.’
‘By the Angel?’ Martina asked. ‘You don’t really think she’s come back after ten years?’
‘Who knows? According to the girl who found Westland, the wound inflicted on him was very professional. Single cut. One stroke.’
‘Since when are hookers experts on knife wounds?’
‘Since they started studying medicine at Hamburg Uni,’ said Fabel flatly. ‘If you remember, the Angel was a dab hand with a blade.’
‘I’m not likely to forget,’ said Martina. ‘I was stationed here when the second last murder took place. I won’t forget that crime scene in a hurry. We found him dead in his car in Seilerstrasse. Minus genitalia. The last one was dumped in a corner of Heligen-Geist-Feld. Also minus working parts. That’s why I don’t think this is the Angel. No castration, the fatal knife wound was in the belly, not the throat
… and there’s a gap of nearly ten years. The other thing is that the Angel never stole from her victims. Other than their love tackle, that is. And anyway, like I said, I’ve seen the Angel’s work. If that girl hadn’t told me what Westland had said, I wouldn’t have made the connection.’
‘Maybe she misheard him. He was speaking in English.’
They were interrupted by Carstens Kaminski, the Davidwache commander, who stuck his head around the conference-room door.
‘Okay, Jan, whether the attacker was the Angel or not, this one is now officially all yours. I just got the call from St Georg. Westland’s dead.’
It was a dry night but bitterly cold, the kind of cold you felt in your lungs when you breathed in the night air. Fabel took Werner with him. They left through the rear exit to Davidwache and walked to the murder scene. They headed up Davidstrasse and passed the end of Herbertstrasse with its red-painted metal baffles.
As they approached, Fabel saw a tall grey-haired man wearing a long dark blue overcoat slip through the baffle screens. Everything about the man spoke of him being well-off, respectable. Fabel imagined the life of this stranger: an unsuspecting wife at home, children. Grandchildren probably. He was maybe even a respected figure. Someone whom others looked up to. There was something about the man’s furtive sidestep into sleaze that thoroughly depressed Fabel.
They walked along Erichstrasse, passing the occasional illuminated window and ignoring the tapping on the glass and beckoning gestures of the prostitutes.
‘Ah…’ Werner sighed sarcastically. ‘The siren call of a two-minute knee-trembler… I mean, would you ever consider…?’ He jerked a thumb in the direction of the last window they had passed.
‘You’re joking, right?’ said Fabel.
‘Some men — a lot of men — go in for it. Complication-free sex, I suppose.’
‘Unless you consider picking up a disease a complication. I hate the way the Reeperbahn is painted as “naughty but nice”. A tourist attraction. The truth is it’s cheap and nasty and sordid.’
‘Granted. But it’s here. And here to stay.’
‘Everybody keeps telling me that,’ said Fabel. ‘But I’m not so sure, Werner.’
When they reached the crime scene they found that there were still two uniforms on duty and a single forensic technician in a white bunny suit was still working the site. Fabel held up his Polizei Hamburg ID and one of the uniforms lifted the tape.
‘Is there anywhere you don’t want us to walk?’ Fabel called over to the technician.
The technician stood up and Fabel saw it was Astrid Bremer. Astrid had replaced Frank Grueber to become Holger Brauner’s deputy two years ago. She had the hood of her forensic suit pulled up over her hair and its elasticated edge turned the oval of her face into a pretty, almost childlike mask.
‘Nope…’ she said. ‘You’re okay. We finished processing the scene an hour ago.’
‘So why are you still here?’ asked Werner.
Astrid shrugged. ‘My mother always said I was a stubborn child. I just thought we were missing something. It was winding me up.’
‘And were you missing something?’ asked Fabel.
‘The killer knew what she was doing,’ said Astrid, ‘but it’s difficult for any human being not to leave some trace somewhere of their presence. I reckon she stepped back into the shadows over there by the tree. We didn’t quite get a footprint, but the heel of her boot sank into the earth at the bottom of the tree. From that we might be able to get a rough indication of her weight. That started me thinking about her height. There’s only one hundred and forty-two centimetres of clearance between the bottom of the tree and the first branches. Unless she was a midget, she would have had to duck in to keep concealed without getting tangled in the branches.’ Astrid grinned and held out a plastic evidence bag.
The bag looked empty to Fabel until he stepped out into the street and held it up against the street light.
‘A single strand,’ said Astrid. ‘It’s maybe not connected to the killing, but given where I found it I think that’s very unlikely. I would say your killer is a blonde. And we have her DNA.’
3
The Altona Balkon — the ‘Altona Balcony’ — is a plateau of parkland elevated thirty metres above the River Elbe and fringed with a bench-lined boulevard. The Balcony affords one of the finest views of Hamburg, all along the Elbe to the Kohlbrandbrucke, making it a favourite spot not just for the people of Altona but for those from all over Hamburg.
A still-handsome man of about sixty, his coat collar turned up against the cold, sat on a bench at the edge of the snow-dusted Balkon and watched the distant activity of the ships and tugs, loaders and cranes in the container harbours. Above him the sky was a pale winter blue and behind him the low sun sparkled gold through the naked branches of the trees. It was a peaceful moment: a moment in which he realised how little peace he had enjoyed
