JF05 - The Valkyrie Song (25 page)

‘Not all men.’

‘No … not all. Perhaps. But in a military context it seems there is a new set of values, a different morality. War rape is an act of cultural humiliation and sometimes, as in Bosnia, of genocide: a deliberate attempt to destroy the enemy’s genetic pool by forcing pregnancy and birth on the female population. In Bosnia it was so clearly a military strategy that the UN declared it a crime against humanity. But there is research that suggests that there is another side to it: that
participation in mass rape is a bonding mechanism for men within a military community. There was evidence – not hard evidence, more rumour and hearsay – that Vuja
i
ć
used it in exactly that way. That’s what made him worse. Vuja
i
ć
rationalised it and used it as a tool. But, like I said, we never got to prove it in a court of law.’

‘Well, he might have wriggled his way out of prosecution, but somebody certainly caught up with him in Copenhagen.’

‘I know. It was too quick a death. From what I read about it, anyway. What’s Vuja
i
ć
got to do with Jake?’

‘Nothing,’ said Fabel and smiled. ‘Nothing at all, in fact. It was just that his name came up in connection with something else. I knew he’d been involved in the Bosnian War and had been implicated in the rape camps.’

‘Unfortunately, the case on Vuja
i
ć
is closed. Like I said, a quick death with a knife in the heart is no just punishment for all the crimes he committed. Although I do understand why it was done.’

‘Actually, it was probably unconnected. More to do with rivalry between organised-crime bosses.’ Fabel drained his cup and stood up. ‘Thanks for your time, Frau Meissner. If anything else comes to you that you think is relevant, even if you don’t think it’s that important, please give me a ring.’

He handed her his Polizei Hamburg business card with the Murder Commission number on it.

Meissner smiled. ‘I’ll do that.’

Hamburg was a low-rise city. With the exception of the Fernsehturm TV tower, the five spires of its Protestant churches, the single Catholic cathedral and the Rathaus had been allowed to retain their dominance of the city-centre skyline. Over the years, the city planners had ensured that
almost nothing in the heart of the city exceeded the height of the established Kontorhaus buildings.

There had, however, been the occasional glaring slip-up and the odd monolithic hotel glowered over Hamburg from the fringe of the city centre. But, unlike Frankfurt or London, there would be no attempt to ape an American skyline: there was to be no Canary Wharf for Hamburg. Instead, architects met the creative challenge of developing striking buildings that sat well with the character and history of the city. The HanSat building was not one of them. Sitting in the Neustadt quarter of the city, the satellite TV station’s gleaming glass and steel headquarters was the type of restrained corporate tower one found in Hamburg. This building had had its skyscraper ambitions cut short, literally. Sylvie Achtenhagen’s office was on the third of ten floors. She had just returned to her office after filming her piece for that night’s show when the door opened and Andreas Knabbe walked in without knocking.

‘How are you?’ Knabbe asked in his usual manner that suggested he did not really give a damn how the hell she or anyone else was. He sat down on the edge of her desk.

‘What can I do for you, Herr Knabbe?’ Sylvie smiled with the same level of sincerity.

‘I’ve just seen the piece you’ve done for tonight. The woman-trafficking stuff.’

‘And?’

‘And it was very good. Very …’ Knabbe made a show of struggling for the right word, searching for it somewhere on her office ceiling. ‘Very worthy. But you know …’

‘What?’

‘To be honest it was, well, depressing.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Sylvie’s smile had become a rictus grin. ‘You’re probably right that I underplayed the comedy element of fourteen-year-old East European and Asian girls being sold into sex slavery.’

‘Quite.’ Sylvie Achtenhagen’s irony passed cleanly over Knabbe’s expensively barbered head. ‘I just think it isn’t our kind of thing. I think stories like that have more of a natural home on ARD or ZDF. What we need is something with a bit of zing to it. You know, like this Angel thing in St Pauli. Now that really was—’

‘Yes, I know – you’ve already made it clear you think that was my shining hour. I am following that up, you know. It’s just I have to get other stuff out as well.’

‘Maybe, Sylvie – and this is just an idea – but maybe we should let someone else have a run with this particular ball …’

Sylvie Achtenhagen stood up so suddenly that Knabbe was taken aback. She leaned forward, her face close to his, forcing him off the edge of her desk. ‘Don’t you dare take that story from me. I told you I’ve been working on it. And I’m making progress. When that story breaks it’ll be me who breaks it. Big time. And if you put anyone else near it I’ll quit and take it to another broadcaster. Am I clear on that, Andreas?’

Knabbe stared at her for a moment. Shocked. Alarmed by something he had seen in her face. ‘There’s no need to get heated,’ he said at last. ‘I was just thinking what would be best.’

‘What’s best is for me to finish the job I started.’ She was calm again, but something smouldered after the flash fire. ‘I guarantee you it will be a killer of a story.’

‘Okay,’ Knabbe said, some of his composure restored. ‘But if this story doesn’t break …’

‘It will. I promise you that.’

There was an awkward silence for a moment.

‘Anyway, speaking of the Angel case, there’s something you can perhaps help me with,’ Sylvie said eventually.

‘Oh?’ Knabbe’s voice was laden with suspicion. ‘What?’

‘Your business partner. The lovely Frau Brønsted. Or more specifically her corporation, the NeuHansa Group.’

‘What about it?’

‘Well, the latest victim of the St Pauli killer …’

‘The Angel?’

‘Well, yes, for the moment let’s say it is the same killer as before. This latest victim of the Angel worked for a company called Norivon Environmental. Apparently it’s a subsidiary of the NeuHansa Group.’

‘What do you want me to do?’ The suspicion hadn’t left Knabbe’s tone.

‘Fix up an appointment for me with the CEO of Norivon. And maybe even with Gina Brønsted. But don’t say it’s about Lensch’s murder.’

‘They’ll probably work that out for themselves. I don’t know if Frau Brønsted will give you an interview. And I don’t know if I like where you’re going with this. The NeuHansa Group is my main business partner, Sylvie. And whether you like it or not, we’re in the business of television.’

‘Trust me, Andreas. I’m not after a scoop on NeuHansa or Gina Brønsted. I just need some background information. And, trust me, when I break this story for you, it will be big. Very big.’

‘Okay. I’ll see what I can do.’

After Knabbe had left, Sylvie sat and stared out of her office window, not seeing the city that lay dark under a slate sky. The phone ringing interrupted her equally gloomy thoughts. The call was on her direct number and had not come through reception.

‘Hello, Frau Achtenhagen.’ It was a man’s voice and it broke off to cough. ‘Excuse me. I believe you are looking into the killings in St Pauli?’

‘Yes – who is this?’

‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather not give my name. Not at the moment, anyway.’ More coughing.

‘You know something about the killings?’ Sylvie Achtenhagen tried to keep the irritation and the boredom out
of her voice. There was always someone confessing to the Angel killings, or who knew someone who knew somebody who had said something suspicious; cranks who were receiving messages through their fillings from the spirit world, or who were convinced their husband-slash-boss-slash-pet was the perpetrator.

‘Yes. I know a lot about the killings. I know a lot about a lot of things. And what I know is something you will be willing to pay for.’

‘Yes, yes – I’ve heard that all before.’

‘No, trust me, Frau Achtenhagen. I have something you have to see. Something really big.’

‘Now I definitely have heard that all before and it always ends in disappointment. Can we cut the crap and you tell me exactly what it is that you’re trying to sell me?’

‘Something that you won’t want me to sell to anyone else, that’s for sure. You see, I have a pretty good idea who is behind those killings in St Pauli.’

‘The Angel?’

‘Now, Frau Achtenhagen, we both know it’s not the Angel – not the original Angel, anyway. I have a pretty good idea who killed those two men last month and it certainly wasn’t the original Angel. But that does bring me to my second point. The most important one and I know you will pay big time to stop me selling it elsewhere. I know the identity of the original Angel. I know her name, where she lives, what she does. I even know why she killed all those men in the nineties.’

‘Really? And how do you know that?’ Sylvie Achtenhagen scrabbled through the shooting schedules and report notes on her desk until she found a pad and pencil.

‘It used to be my job to know things. About people. I worked for the Ministry for State Security in the German Democratic Republic.’

‘You’re ex-Stasi? Why the hell should I pay some ex-Stasi scum for information about murders in Hamburg?’

‘Because I’m a forward-thinking kind of guy. Always have been. I was based in the Ministry’s headquarters, in Berlin-Lichtenberg. I was there right up until the fifteenth of January nineteen ninety. There was a mob outside the gates ready to burst in and everyone was busy shredding files. When the shredders couldn’t cope, they started to rip them up by hand. It was futile. So many files. Too many.’