JF05 - The Valkyrie Song (36 page)

‘Where is it now?’ asked Fabel.

‘We gave it to forensics for testing,’ said Dirk Hechtner. ‘If that blade has been used as a weapon, then I’ll bet a week’s pay we’ll get blood out of the leather bit.’

‘Good,’ said Fabel. ‘Anything else?’

‘A make-up kit,’ said Dirk. ‘It had several shades of hair dye, different types of make-up – not ordinary women’s cosmetics, it was stuff you could use to alter your appearance. Other stuff too … it took us a while to work out what some of it was for. Cheek prosthetics to change the shape of her face, that kind of thing. We also found a folder with paperwork to support her identity as Ute Cranz.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Anna said. ‘Margarethe Paulus was an escaped loony on the run from a mental hospital where she’d spent the last fifteen years. Where the hell did she get all these resources?’

‘Now that,’ said Fabel, ‘is a very good point. It’s pretty obvious that she had outside help. Very professional outside help. Let’s go back to what we’ve found out. The victim is a Robert Gerdes, except he probably isn’t. It looks pretty certain that he was Major Georg Drescher, a former major in the HVA wing of the East German Stasi. What we know so far is that Drescher was the control for three highly trained female agents, specifically trained as assassins. It kind of looks like Drescher embraced the free-market economy with relish
and set up his own little Murder Incorporated, right here in the Free and Hanseatic City. It is perfectly safe to assume that Margarethe Paulus, while she may be a former protégée of Drescher, was not one of his active hit women. Mainly because, as Anna pointed out, she was locked up in a Mecklenburg secure hospital.’ He took a deep breath. ‘What we have here is the suggestion that there is a female contract killer – one of the world’s most successful – operating out of Hamburg. And she’s called, supposedly, the Valkyrie. Now we have an ex-Stasi officer killed by one of the three women he was supposed to have trained. And these female political assassins also went by the name Valkyrie. Maybe Drescher was the outside help. For argument’s sake, let’s accept he has one or both of the other Valkyries operating under his command, but let’s say business is too good and he’s turning work away. Maybe he wanted to expand the business and add another of his former protégées to his staff.’

‘Isn’t that unlikely?’ asked Werner. ‘Think about it: what you’re talking about is a highly skilled and disciplined operation. You wouldn’t take on a nutcase.’

‘Maybe he thought she wasn’t a nutcase when she was under his command. That he could control her. That he provided a context for her to function in.’

‘Oh yeah,’ snorted Anna, ‘that’ll be it. Every woman needs a man to complete her, after all.’ Then, before Fabel could respond: ‘I think you’re way off,
Chef
. He couldn’t have misjudged her that much – look what she did to him.’

‘But look at the resources she had at her disposal within weeks of escaping from the hospital. If Drescher didn’t do it, who set her up with everything she needed?’ asked Fabel. When no one responded he moved on. ‘What else have we got?’

‘I chased up Theo Wangler,’ said Anna, ‘and I’ve got a still from the Reeperbahn CCTV of the fake taxi,’ said Anna. ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t help much. They’ve done everything
they could to enhance it, but it’s worth nothing. The Merc had false plates and you can’t see the face of the driver clearly enough for identification. You couldn’t even really say whether it was a man or a woman at the wheel. But we’ve had more luck with the Hanseviertel. You were right – Jens Jespersen had lunch there. There are no cameras in the basement restaurant itself, but we picked up this …’ Anna handed Fabel a print of an image taken from the CCTV. Jespersen was standing next to the glass elevator in the central atrium, near the restaurant. Next to him was a woman with a mass of chaotic blonde hair. Her face was partly turned from the camera and detail in the enlarged image was fuzzy. But it was clear enough to establish that Jespersen and the woman were engaging each other in conversation.

‘You get more than this?’ he asked Anna.

‘Nope. A few shots of her back, that’s all. They went their separate ways: he went out onto Neuer Wall and she headed out onto Poststrasse. But that doesn’t mean they didn’t arrange to meet later. We’ve been able to work out a height for her, though, from the security-camera shots – roughly one seventy-three or -four centimetres tall, give or take heels.’

‘Get someone down to the restaurant to—’

‘Done it,’ interrupted Anna. ‘I’ve got someone to take a photograph of Jespersen and a copy of that.’ She nodded towards the CCTV image. ‘And talk to all of the staff who were on duty at the time. So far, nothing.’

‘Okay,’ said Fabel. ‘We’re going back to Drescher’s apartment. This time we’re going to take it apart. If these Valkyries are real, and we remove Margarethe Paulus from the equation, that leaves two more out there. And one of them, or maybe both, were working for Drescher. Now they are rudderless. It would appear we’ve had as many as two highly trained professional killers under our noses for years. Now they are out there on their own and maybe desperate. It’s not an idea
I’m too comfortable with. What is it, Werner?’ Fabel had noticed his deputy’s thoughtful expression.

‘What are we putting out to the press about the murder?’ he asked. ‘There weren’t any outside the place when I left.’

‘What’s your point?’ asked Fabel.

‘If Gerdes is this Major Drescher, then he was a spy by training and by inclination.’

‘So?’

‘So I’m betting that if he was running a contract-killer business, then he would have run his assassins as a spy cell. Strictly need-to-know basis. They will have had a close bond, but I’ll bet that they
never
came anywhere near his apartment.’

‘I get it,’ said Anna, suddenly animated. ‘So a murder in that apartment block or street won’t really mean anything to the Valkyrie unless the name Gerdes or Drescher is associated with it.’

‘Exactly,’ said Werner. ‘I’ll bet she doesn’t even know the name Gerdes.’ He turned to Fabel. ‘What if we “lose” the story, or disguise it as something else for a while? That means the Valkyrie won’t know he’s dead. Then, if we can work out the mechanism for contacting her – or them, if there are two – we can nail them.’

Fabel rubbed his chin thoughtfully and was reminded by the stubble rasping under his fingertips that he hadn’t had a chance to shave before rushing out to the Drescher murder scene. And that was how he saw it now: the
Drescher
murder scene.

‘It’s an idea …’ he said. ‘Sylvie Achtenhagen wasn’t outside the flat, so that would suggest that no one is making the connection yet. I’ll talk to the press department, see if they can fudge for a while … Okay, Werner – let’s run with the idea. The first thing we have to do is find out how Drescher contacted the Valkyrie. Let’s take his place apart.’

‘I’ve never seen you on the telly,’ said the old woman as she set the tray with coffee and baked biscuits on the table.

‘It’s a satellite station.’ Sylvie smiled as she took the cup handed to her. The coffee had a caramelly aftertaste.
Rondo Melange
. ‘I see you don’t have satellite. Our station covers most of the North. You really should have satellite. Don’t you watch a lot of TV?’

‘Oh yes – I have the TV on all day. Company, you see. And I would love to have satellite, but I can’t afford it.’ The old woman sat down. ‘Who is it you said you were looking for?’

Sylvie estimated that the woman wasn’t really that old. Maybe seventy. But, like many women of that age, she had given up: she was slightly overweight and saggy, and her pale skin looked rough, with a reddened eczematous disc to the right of her chin.

‘You worked for the MfS? Back then, in the old days, Frau Schneeg?’ Sylvie asked.

‘Oh yes …’ Frau Schneeg raised her hands and emptied her expression of anything that could be interpreted as guile. ‘But I wasn’t anything to do with all that kind of thing. You know, the snooping and stuff. I was just a filing clerk.’

‘I understand that, Frau Schneeg.’ Sylvie smiled. ‘Naturally. But you
were
involved in the personnel records department.’

‘Yes – pensions, staff allowances …’

‘Exactly. I was wondering if you could tell me if you knew any of these people.’ Sylvie laid the sheet out on the table, next to the embroidered doilies and the coffee and biscuits.

‘I really don’t want to get involved. You know what I mean: people here don’t know I worked in the ministry. I moved here to Halberstadt after the Wall came down. I have a niece here.’

‘I understand, Frau Schneeg.’ Sylvie replaced her smile with
a concerned frown. ‘But I promise no one will know. I just want to find some of these people and no one need ever know where I got the information. That’s if you can help me at all. I’m looking for people who worked with either Colonel Adebach or Major Drescher.’

‘I don’t know …’

‘My station would be most grateful if you could help,’ said Sylvie. ‘I’m sure we could fix you up with a satellite box and dish – and a few subscriptions.’

For a moment Frau Schneeg looked at Sylvie intently, then said: ‘Let me have a look at your list …’

They sat in the living room of Drescher’s apartment, each of them wearing the same empty expression of dull frustration.

‘We’ve been here before,’ Karin Vestergaard said to Fabel.

‘There must be
something
here.’ Fabel sighed.

‘We’re not looking in the right places,’ said Werner. ‘We’re not devious enough. That’s what comes of growing up in a democracy.’

Fabel snapped his fingers. ‘Werner, you’re brilliant. You are absolutely right – we don’t know where to look. Or how to look.’ Taking out his wallet, he retrieved the business card Martina Schilmann had given him. He flipped it over to where she had handwritten her mobile number and keyed it into his cellphone.

‘Martina … It’s Jan Fabel.’

‘Hi, Jan. What can I do for you?’

‘Lorenz, your Saxon chum. You said he was ex-Volkspolizei.’

‘Yes, what of it?’

‘Did he serve after the Wall came down? In one of the new forces?’

‘No.’ Martina sounded suspicious. ‘What is this all about?’

‘Why didn’t he continue his police career?’

‘Jan,’ she said, with a sigh, ‘I can see where you’re going with this. Let me save time. The answer is yes, he was linked with the Stasi. That’s why he couldn’t get into one of the new forces. Why do you want to know?’

‘I have an apartment here that’s refusing to give up its secrets. The occupier was ex-Stasi. I need to know where to look.’

There was a silence at the other end of the connection.

‘Give me the address,’ Martina said at last. ‘I’ll bring him over myself …’

It took Martina Schilmann half an hour to arrive. Fabel had cleared the uniforms from the street, to attract as little attention as possible. In the digital age of cellphones that could take photographs and video, it never took long before someone was on to the television or newspapers. The city was no longer asleep and a heavy police presence in the street would be fully exposed to view.

Fabel had instructed the uniformed cops downstairs to conduct Schilmann and Lorenz Dühring directly up to the penthouse apartment.

Fabel guessed that Martina had been taking a day off: she was dressed in jeans, a heavy sweater and a thigh-length leather coat. Her blonde hair had been tied back in a ponytail and her face was naked of make-up. It made her look younger, more natural, and Fabel couldn’t help remembering why he had been attracted to Martina in the first place. It was as if she had read his thoughts and she smiled shyly.

Lorenz lumbered into the background: tall, thickset and dark.

‘This is
Politidirektør
Karin Vestergaard of the Danish National Police,’ explained Fabel in English. ‘We are cooperating on this case.’

The two women shook hands. A little coldly, thought Fabel.
The dynamics of female relationships remained a mystery to him.

‘I’m afraid Lorenz doesn’t speak English,’ said Martina. ‘Poor chump got stuck with Russian at school.’

Fabel turned to Vestergaard. ‘Lorenz was a policeman in the former GDR. In the Volkspolizei. He wasn’t allowed to become a member of the new, post-change police forces because only members of the Volkspolizei who were free of any connection to the Stasi were allowed to continue as policemen.’

‘He’s ex-Stasi?’

‘He was one of their little helpers, let’s say,’ said Martina. ‘And he received training from them, which is what Jan was counting on. By the way, Jan, for your information, I didn’t know what Lorenz had been involved in. I guessed he’d been a Stasi unofficial, but, let’s face it, it’s a skills set that’s very useful in my line of work. I asked him on the way over here if he had taken part in house searches and he told me he had.’

‘Frau Schilmann told me that an ex-Stasi officer lived here,’ Lorenz piped up in German.

‘That’s right,’ said Fabel. ‘A major in the HVA.’

‘HVA?’ Lorenz rubbed his heavy chin with forefinger and thumb. ‘Those boys knew what they were doing when it came to hiding stuff. You’re sure he has something here? I think it’s more likely that he would keep anything sensitive in a different location.’