appointment with one of Hamburg’s most influential politicians.
He made his way through Stade’s pretty centre, out into the countryside and found his bearings, driving along a narrow, straight ribbon of road beside the high banks of a canal. The sun was filtered through the tops of the trees, squeezing through a letter box of clear sky between the flat landscape below and a parallel bank of dark cloud above. The trees thickened into a dense wedge at the side of the road and Fabel swung into the long drive that he knew led up to Muller-Voigt’s home.
It was just as Fabel remembered it: massive, imposing, modern, all angles and glass. And what wasn’t glass seemed to be faced with blue marble, although Fabel knew from his last visit that it was actually a facade made up entirely of solar panels.
It was the kind of place that the architects would use on all their publicity. A mixture of masterpiece and pension fund.
Muller-Voigt was dressed in chinos, a blue long-sleeved corded shirt with a white T-shirt underneath and canvas deck shoes. It was the most casual of outfits, but Fabel reckoned it had cost more than some of Fabel’s best suits.
‘Thank you for coming,’ the politician said as he opened the door. Fabel had the same feeling that he had had when the Senator had spoken to him in the Presidium’s elevator: that he was looking at a troubled man. Which was a disconcerting sight: Fabel had never seen Muller-Voigt troubled. In fact, he’d never seen him anything other than calm and relaxed. And totally in control.
Like a million other Germans, Fabel had seen and heard Muller-Voigt in many stressful situations. Hamburg’s Environment Senator was the kind of guest live TV and radio producers loved: he had an innate knack of being able to make statements that were both provocative and combative while maintaining a relaxed outward calm. It was a style that was simultaneously nonchalant and aggressive. And it made for great media interviews. Muller-Voigt seemed to thrive in an environment of conflict and his value to broadcasters was the adroit way he could light the fuse of other politicians. Interviews would end with his opponent seeming to lack self-control and self-assurance. Muller-Voigt made full and effective use of the truism that whoever loses their temper loses the argument. Muller- Voigt never lost either.
But tonight Fabel was seeing something different. Someone different.
Muller-Voigt showed Fabel into a huge living room, pine-lined with a double-height vaulted ceiling and a banistered gallery above. Just as he had the last time he had been here, Fabel was annoyed at the vague pang of petty jealousy he felt looking around the politician’s elegant home. Elegant but totally environmentally friendly. The house was making a statement: it was cool to be green.
They sat down on a large corner sofa facing the two-storey picture windows. The sun seemed tinged a different colour through the glass.
‘I can adjust it at will,’ said Muller-Voigt, as if he had read Fabel’s mind. ‘It’s the latest technology: energy- capture glass. It doesn’t just insulate and prevent the escape of warmth from the house, it actually captures solar power and converts it to energy.’
‘I see,’ said Fabel. ‘Very impressive.’
‘I know that many people — and I don’t know if you’re one of them — think this is all a bit of a gimmick with me. That I’m really more interested in the political than the natural environment. Normally I wouldn’t care what you or anyone else thought, but I need you to understand something, Herr Fabel: I am genuinely, completely and irreversibly committed to changing how mankind treats the environment. It’s more than a political belief; it’s how I see life.’
Fabel shrugged. ‘I have no reason to doubt that.’
‘Well, as I said, some do.’ There was a hint of bitterness in Muller-Voigt’s tone. ‘As a race, as a species, we’ve lost our way, Herr Fabel. And it’s going to be the end of us. In fact, we’ve lost our most basic capability to read Nature, the geography and climate around us. Take where we are right now.’ He waved a hand vaguely at the landscape beyond the windows. ‘I built this house on a geest — an island of sand and gravel dumped as moraine by the last ice age, in the middle of a flat sea of heath, marsh and moor. If you look around this whole area you’ll see that almost every town is built on a geest, Stade included.
‘When these settlements were first created, our ancestors were connected to Nature and to the landscape. They could read the signs and learn from experience of changing weather patterns. And that meant they knew where to build their homes. Do you know something? These geests have provided the perfect protection against storm surges for a millennium of settlement. The marshes around them work like huge sponges and the geests themselves are natural flood barriers. Giant natural sandbags. And you see all the Knicks that run alongside the canals and rivers here?’ Muller-Voigt referred to the turf embankments, topped by trees and bushes, that criss- crossed the Altes Land and much of the rest of the Northern German landscape. ‘Some of those Knicks are older than the pyramids of Giza, built by our ancestors more than five thousand years ago. And do you know something, they remain the best protection against aeolian and fluvial erosion this landscape has.’ Muller-Voigt gave a small laugh. ‘Look at the millions and millions of euros spent on flood defences for Hamburg. Don’t get me wrong, they’re needed to protect people and property — but if you look at the historical flooding patterns of Hamburg over the last century or so, you’ll see all of the areas that have remained immune. And guess what? They’re all the oldest settled parts of the city, on the Hamburg geest slopes. That’s what we’ve lost, Fabel. Connection.’
‘I understand, Herr Senator, but I assume that’s not why you called me out here.’
‘Isn’t it?’ I want you to remember what I have said because, believe it or not, it is relevant to what I have to talk to you about. There is a lot of discussion in the media about the environment, and it has slowly climbed the ladder of political priority, but it’s still not high enough. There is a disaster waiting for us, Herr Fabel, and it’s just around the corner. There are a lot of people who believe that extreme action has to be taken now. Very extreme action. Drink?’ Muller-Voigt asked, making his way to the cabinet.
‘No, thanks,’ said Fabel.
‘Of course. Never on duty…’ Muller-Voigt smiled a half-hearted smile.
‘Never when I’ve got the car. Anyway, I’m not on duty. This is, so far, unofficial.’
‘I appreciate that, Herr Fabel. You don’t mind if I do?’
‘Go ahead,’ said Fabel. It occurred to him that Muller-Voigt was not the kind of man who would normally need fortification to face anything.
Ice tinkled against expensive crystal as Muller-Voigt brought his malt whisky over and sat opposite Fabel. ‘I really am grateful that you came to see me at such short notice.’
‘Well, it was pretty clear that it’s something urgent.’
‘Urgent, but, as you said, at the moment unofficial,’ said Muller-Voigt. He leaned back in the sofa and contemplated his whisky glass for a moment. ‘Obviously, I am kept fully up to date on all developments when something as major as the recent storm hits Hamburg. Storms and related damage lie within my purview, as you probably can imagine.’
‘I suppose so…’
‘So you’ll understand that any consequential fatalities and injuries are reported to me as a matter of urgency. Such as the body that was washed up at the Fischmarkt. The one I asked you about earlier today.’
‘As we already discussed, Senator, the woman washed up at the Fischmarkt wasn’t a consequential fatality. She wasn’t killed by the storm or flood.’
‘I see. How do you know she didn’t die as a result of the storm? And what makes you think she wasn’t a victim of this Network Killer?’
‘Listen, Herr Senator, I understand your interest, but all I can tell you is that the victim did not die as a result of the storm. The rest is a police matter at the moment.’
‘A Murder Commission matter, you mean…’
‘Herr Senator…’ Fabel infused a warning in his tone.
Muller-Voigt put his whisky glass down. ‘I want to see the body,’ he said decisively.
‘What?’
‘I want to see the body of the woman washed up at the Fischmarkt. I think I may be able to help you identify her.’
‘I doubt it. The body is in a condition that would make that difficult. There’s clearly something you want to tell me, Herr Senator. What is it? Why did you ask me to come here?’
Muller-Voigt took another swallow of whisky. ‘You know my reputation, Herr Fabel. With women. The
