JF05 - The Valkyrie Song (14 page)

Armin walked on, his internal rage and the ache from his groin making him blind to all around him. He stopped. Where the fuck was he? He had thought he knew his way around the Kiez well enough, but he must have taken a wrong turning. He took a moment to reorient himself and took the next right. He saw the Reeperbahn ahead of him but he was further up than Spielbudenplatz. Still, it wouldn’t be difficult to find a taxi. At that moment he caught sight of a beige Mercedes and his hand went up. An automatic reaction: in Germany, all taxis were beige; all beige cars were taxis. He eased himself with a moan into the back seat.

‘Eppendorf …’ he said between his teeth.

‘Are you okay?’ asked the driver. ‘You don’t look well.’

Fucking great, thought Armin. A female taxi driver.

‘Just take me to Eppendorf,’ he said. The woman driver shrugged, started the car and took a left into the Reeperbahn.

It was only after she took the wrong turning at the end of
the Reeperbahn and he realised that they were down by the river that Armin noticed that there was no meter in the front of the taxi; nor was there a certificate on display with the driver’s name, photograph and City of Hamburg licence.

By which time it was too late.

Fabel felt exhausted. It had been a much more gruelling experience than he had expected. Susanne had come along too and he had been grateful for her presence.

‘That was very worthwhile,’ said a tall, thin woman of about fifty as she approached Fabel. She had a name badge that informed him she was Hille Deicher, representing
Muliebritas
. ‘I hope you can take something useful away from our workshop.’

Fabel smiled. He could never understand why business people, self-help gurus and others insisted on calling conferences ‘workshops’. No one made anything. None of the people who attended these things worked with their hands.

‘It was interesting,’ said Fabel. ‘But I hope I made it clear that the Polizei Hamburg needs no prompting to deal with the issue of domestic violence, or violence against women in general. We are very …’ He struggled for the word.

‘Proactive,’ interjected Susanne helpfully.

‘Quite,’ said Fabel. ‘We’ve been running an anti-violence programme for several years now. We do, I assure you, have a zero-tolerance attitude when it comes to violence against women or children. And we have one of the most successful records in Europe in dealing with the issue. But I have to say that we are committed to protecting all of Hamburg’s citizens, regardless of gender. Or ethnicity.’

‘I’m afraid that crime isn’t as gender-blind,’ said Deicher. ‘You said yourself in your presentation that the vast majority of murders are men killing women, and the vast majority of
those are within the domestic environment. Add to that the countless assaults on women in their own homes.’

‘All that is true.’ Fabel shot a pleading glance at Susanne. ‘And we have, as I said, made it a priority area.’

‘Maybe that’s why this woman in St Pauli is committing these murders.’ Deicher smiled without warmth. ‘Maybe she’s motivated to redress the balance of male-on-female violence. After all, I can’t think of a better place for her to go about it. It is a farce that there is a street in Hamburg to which women are forbidden entry.’

‘Listen, Frau Deicher,’ Fabel felt himself suddenly angry. ‘It isn’t the police or the state that—’

‘What does
Muliebritas
mean?’ Susanne interrupted Fabel, directing her question, and her smile, at Deicher.

‘It is the Latin form of “muliebrity”. You know, the quality of being female. It is the name of the magazine I work for. And the charity we support.’ She looked pointedly back at Fabel. ‘We organise emergency accommodation for women subject to domestic violence.’

‘That’s an interesting name,’ said Susanne, still smiling. ‘Is that where the Spanish
mujer
comes from?’

Somehow, Susanne managed to steer the conversation into calmer waters and, after a while, Deicher drifted off to mingle with other delegates.

‘Thanks for that,’ said Fabel when Deicher was gone. ‘That woman was really beginning to wind me up. I don’t know why they insisted on sending me to this.’

‘Because you’re the head of Hamburg’s Murder Commission, and, like it or not, what Frau Deicher was saying is true: we still live in a society where women are victimised by violence. Anyway, I thought you did really well.’ Susanne smiled and straightened his tie, as if she were about to send him off to school. ‘Especially because women get you all flustered.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Fabel indignantly.

‘Well, you do. It’s pretty clear you think we’re from a
completely different planet. But don’t worry about it, most men are the same.’

Fabel was about to respond when his cellphone buzzed. He checked the call screener. It was the Murder Commission.

‘Sorry,’ he said with a shrug as he lifted the phone to his ear. ‘Probably another murder.’

‘If it is,’ said Susanne, ‘even with all of these Angel killings at the moment, I’ll bet the victim is female …’

Fabel met Anna and Werner in the hallway outside the interview room. Both officers wore an expression that was less than triumphant.

‘Tell me this is our killer …’ said Fabel.

‘She looked good for it, Jan,’ said Werner. ‘She looked really good. She lured me onto waste ground and out of sight. She didn’t seem to know the drill for a hooker and when she reached inside her coat we took her down.’

‘But?’

‘Her name is Viola Dahlke,’ explained Anna. ‘She’s forty-five and has no previous convictions. She’s a housewife from Billstedt.’

‘That doesn’t mean she’s not our killer. Did you get a knife?’

‘No,’ said Anna. ‘When she reached inside her coat Werner and I both thought that she was going for a knife, but it turned out to be a packet of condoms.’

‘Condoms?’

‘Nothing else,’ said Anna. ‘Don’t ask me what a forty-five-year-old housewife from Billstedt was doing in the red-light district offering to ring Werner’s bell.’

‘All right,’ said Fabel, ‘I won’t. I’ll go and ask her myself …’

Arrest is a deprivation of choice. You are removed to a place not of your choosing and your freedom to leave that place is
taken from you. Career criminals accept arrest as a natural element of their lives, even the ones who fight and struggle every centimetre to the cells. For everyone else, the experience of arrest is traumatic. At the very least surreal.

Fabel could tell at first glance that Viola Dahlke had never been in custody before. There was a good chance she’d never even set foot inside a police station before, far less the Police Presidium. Dahlke looked startled, confused. Afraid. Her face was pale behind her overdone make-up and the stark lighting of the interview room seemed to jaundice her pallor and deepen the shadows under her cheekbones. Her hair was the dull putty-blonde that many North German women dyed their hair when it started to lose its natural colour and pulled up into a ponytail. The make-up and the hairstyle looked all wrong on her, like an outfit that didn’t fit right.

‘Frau Dahlke, I take it it has been explained to you that under the terms of Article One-Three-Six of the Criminal Procedure Code you have the right to remain silent. You also have the right to a legal representative. Do you understand these rights?’

Viola Dahlke nodded. She looked as if she was carrying the world on her shoulders and was resigned to the burden. ‘I don’t want a lawyer. I want to go home. I’m sorry. If I’ve broken the law I’ll pay the fine. I didn’t mean any harm. I’m not really … I’m not really one of those women.’

‘Frau Dahlke, I don’t think you understand. We’re not interested in whether you are a prostitute, full-time, part-time or not at all. I am Principal Detective Chief Commissar Fabel of the Murder Commission. The officers who arrested you were murder detectives.’

‘Murder?’ Dahlke raised eyelids heavy with mascara. Genuine shock. Her fear cranked up a ratchet. ‘What have I got to do with murder?’

‘You’ve heard about what happened last week? Let’s face
it, Frau Dahlke, you can’t have missed it, it’s been all over the press and TV. Jake Westland, the British pop singer.’

Realisation began to dawn on Dahlke’s face. A terrified realisation. She searched Fabel’s face for something. Reassurance, maybe. He withheld it.

‘I’ve got nothing to do with that …’ Her voice was tremulous. ‘I swear I’ve got nothing to do with that.’

‘Frau Dahlke, you are a middle-aged housewife masquerading as a prostitute and you tried to lure one of my male officers into a dark corner. Last week, less than two hundred metres from where you were arrested, Jake Westland was lured into a dark corner and murdered by someone pretending to be a prostitute.’

Dahlke stared at Fabel as if lost for words. Or just lost.

‘I take it you can see the seriousness of your position.’

‘I didn’t … I wouldn’t … I didn’t mean anyone any harm.’

‘Where were you between eleven p.m. on Saturday the twenty-sixth and one a.m. on Sunday the twenty-seventh?’

‘I was at home. In bed.’

‘Who can confirm that?’

‘My husband.’ Again Dahlke’s expression revealed that her fear had suddenly been ratcheted up a couple of notches. ‘Oh please, no … please don’t speak to my husband.’

‘Frau Dahlke, you still don’t seem to understand the seriousness of your position. If we cannot establish your whereabouts for the time of the murder you will be held here for further questioning and we will carry out full forensic searches of your home. If you were at home with your husband then we must have him verify the fact.’

‘But I didn’t do anything wrong!’ she sobbed. ‘I didn’t hurt anyone. I swear.’

‘Do you work, Frau Dahlke?’

‘I work in the local library. Part-time.’

‘And is your husband in employment?’

‘Yes – he’s an engineer.’

‘So why do you work as a prostitute?’

‘I don’t. I …’ Again she looked at Fabel with eyes desperate for some kind of understanding. Then the desperation was gone: her head bowed and her gaze became fixed on the table in front of her. ‘I’ve only done it three times,’ she said, her voice now leaden and dull once more. ‘I don’t do it for the money.’

‘Then why? Why on earth would you put yourself or your health at risk?’

She looked up again. Her eyes were glossy with tears that tumbled down her cheeks, streaking them with mascara. ‘I’m ordinary. I’ve always been ordinary. Dull. I have a dull life with a dull husband and dull kids. I’d never been with another man before I got married. I went into the Kiez one night. Just to look. I don’t know why. I wanted to see what happened. The type of people who go there. I don’t know why I did it, but I went into a bar and this man … I did it with him.’

‘Where?’

‘In his car.’ The sobs were now silent convulsions between statements.

‘I still don’t understand why,’ said Fabel. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

‘You wouldn’t understand. No man would understand. I did it for the excitement. To be wanted. Desired.’

‘Did you get all that?’ asked Fabel when he met Anna and Werner in the hall. They had been watching the interview on the closed-circuit video monitor in the next room.

‘Yep,’ said Werner. ‘Weird. Do you believe her?’

‘There’s absolutely no way she could have dumped the knife before you arrested her?’ asked Fabel.

‘None,’ said Anna. ‘She was in Werner’s sight all the time and we searched her thoroughly immediately after she was arrested. Nothing. And nothing dropped or dumped, either.’

Fabel shook his head. ‘I give up sometimes. Keep her in
and check out her alibi for last week with her husband. And try to be – I don’t know –
diplomatic
.’

‘Oh yeah,’ said Anna. ‘Maybe I should ask him if he’s ever seen Catherine Deneuve in
Belle de Jour
. I’m not being funny,
Chef
, but there’s no diplomatic way of telling some guy that his wife’s been moonlighting as a hooker. “And, oh, by the way, don’t feel too bad about it: it’s not that she’s struggling on what you give her for housekeeping – she’s doing it for the love of dick.”’

‘Anna’s got a point, Jan,’ said Werner. ‘There’s no sugaring this pill.’

‘Simply keep to the fact that she’s a suspect in a serious crime, and that you need to establish her whereabouts on the night in question. Leave the explaining to her.’

‘Okay,
Chef
.’

Fabel made his way to his office. He checked his email. There was an internal note from van Heiden to remind him that
Politidirektør
Vestergaard, the boss of the dead Danish cop, Jespersen, was flying down to see them in a couple of days. Van Heiden helpfully provided the flight’s arrival time.

‘I’ve got nothing better to do,’ muttered Fabel. He really wanted to talk to Jespersen’s boss but he had thought, given that he was up to his neck in a major murder inquiry, that van Heiden could at least have arranged the pick-up.

He looked at his watch. Two a.m. He’d go home, catch four or five hours’ sleep and head back into the Presidium. He yawned. He was really getting too old for this. He thought of Viola Dahlke and the fact that she would be lying, wide awake and afraid, considering every thread as the fabric of her life unravelled. What the hell had she thought she was doing? She had been right: he didn’t understand; just as he hadn’t understood why so many of the people he had encountered in his career had done the things they had done. Human sexuality was a perplexing thing. A lot of the murders he had
investigated had had bizarre sexual elements to them and Fabel had been forced to navigate some dark and stormy seas over the years. Sometimes it was as if women remained an unknown continent for him.