A fear of dark water

Chapter Twelve

‘Where are you now?’

‘In the car. Hands-free.’

‘I’m impressed,’ said Susanne. ‘Welcome to the twenty-first century.’

‘This isn’t the twenty-first century,’ said Fabel. ‘I distinctly remember on TV back in the 1970s they promised that by now we’d all be scooting about on hovercars, wearing silver jumpsuits and taking our holidays on the moon. How’s Wiesbaden?’

‘Bourgeois. More bourgeois than Hamburg, if you can imagine that. Where are you going? Are you taking advantage of my absence to have a tryst with some lithe blonde?’

‘Hardly. I’m off to see Berthold Muller-Voigt. At his domicile, don’t you know?’

‘Since when did you hobnob with the Schickeria? What do you have to see him about?’

‘Don’t know yet. He asked me. Funny thing…’

‘In what way funny?’

‘Just that he’s usually so cool and in control. Something’s shaken him up. What, I think I’m about to find out. You missing me?’

‘Terribly, but the young Italian waiter from the restaurant is keeping my mind off it. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow.’

‘By the way, what did you mean, “ Poppenbutteler Schleuse ”?’

‘What?’

‘The text you sent me. Enigmatic, I’ll give you that.’

‘Jan, I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Earlier today,’ he sighed. ‘I was having lunch at the Fahrhaus cafe and I got a text from you. It said “ Poppenbutteler Schleuse ”. Nothing else.’

‘And I thought you never drank at lunchtimes.’

‘I’m not joking, Susanne. It came from your number.’

‘Well, I didn’t send it. Definitely. Maybe you do have a blonde stashed away somewhere and she’s telling you where to meet for that tryst. I believe there’s a really good restaurant there.’

‘I’m being serious, Susanne.’

‘So am I,’ she said emphatically. ‘I didn’t send you that text. Oh, Jan, you know what you’re like with technology. It took me ages to show you how to work an mp3 player and now you’d be lost without it. That message can’t have come from me. You better check with work. Maybe it was Anna Wolff. You know something? I sometimes get the feeling that Anna would like a little tryst with you up at Poppenbutteler Schleuse herself.’

‘Anna?’ Fabel snorted. ‘You’re way off there. For a psychologist, your insight stinks. But I will check with the office tomorrow and see if it was someone there who sent the text.’

Fabel realised that he was already approaching Stade. He hated talking on the phone while driving; even with hands-free he felt you were taken away from the road you were travelling. Particularly when trying to puzzle out who could have sent you a cryptic text message and why they had sent it.

‘Got to go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Sleep well.’

The sky had cleared a little and the sun was already low, painting the town of Stade red as Fabel approached it. He reflected that it was probably the only thing that had painted that particular town red for a long time: Stade was a sleepy, picturesque small town of canals, cobbled streets and gable-ended medieval buildings on the edge of the Altes Land — the Old Land — on the south side of the Elbe, about forty kilometres to the west of Hamburg. It was the kind of place that gave Fabel a sense of comfort. It appealed to the historian in him: Stade was over a thousand years old and one of the oldest settlements in Northern Germany. During the Middle Ages this small provincial town had been, in turn, a Swedish city, a Danish stronghold and a Hanseatic city-state in its own right. Now Stade was part of the Greater Hamburg Metropolitan Area, but nothing much seemed to change it and it stood, quiet, pretty and sedate on the banks of the River Schwinge, watching the passing of time and human follies with stately detachment.

Fabel cursed as he found himself passing through the town’s ancient centre. He had been to Muller-Voigt’s home, on the outskirts of the town, before and had not had to drive through the town to get there. Fabel had been sure he would have been able to find it without any trouble and had not bothered to key the address into the satnav. The truth was that Fabel hardly ever programmed the satnav. Something told him it was the most human thing to find your own way, and that quite often some of the best things happened to you, the best discoveries made, when you had lost your way.

Which was all well and good on a philosophical level, he thought, but not when you were late for an 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 Hamburg press would have everyone believe that I am some kind of unprincipled sexual adventurer. Well, my private life is my private life. I am unmarried and I am fortunate enough to enjoy the company of beautiful and intelligent women. I always have. And for some reason that I have never been able to grasp, they enjoy mine. But I am not married and never have been, so I am betraying no marriage vows. Unlike, it must be said, more than half of my upright married colleagues in the Hamburg Senate. Nor do I trick doe-eyed ingenues into bed or pay for cheap and nasty dalliances in the Reeperbahn. I’m not cheating on anyone and I treat the women with whom I am involved with respect and dignity.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’ asked Fabel. ‘Your personal life is your own affair.’

‘Of all of the women with whom I have been involved over the years there have been only three for whom I had deep feelings. Genuinely deep feelings. One died a long time ago, while the second affair withered on the vine, as it were. The third is the woman with whom I was involved up until just two weeks ago.’ Muller-Voigt stood up, crossed the room to a bureau and came back holding a framed photograph. He fiddled with it for a moment before handing it over; Fabel realised that it was a digital photo frame and Muller-Voigt had been selecting the image he wanted to show him. It was a photograph of a young woman with dark hair and strikingly blue eyes. She was flashing a white-toothed grin at the camera but looked a little uneasy. Shy. She was also, Fabel could see, very beautiful.

‘This is Meliha,’ said Muller-Voigt. ‘I’ve been seeing her for the last three months. As you can see, she is considerably younger than me.’

‘She’s a very attractive woman,’ said Fabel and held the frame out to return it to Muller-Voigt. The politician made no move to take it.

‘Look at her very carefully, Fabel. She’s disappeared.’

‘Missing? How long?’

‘Not missing. Disappeared. Like I said, I was involved with her until two weeks ago, and then she disappeared without trace.’

‘And you think she might be the body washed up after the storm?’

‘I don’t know…’ Muller-Voigt shrugged, but there was nothing dismissive in the gesture nor in his expression. Fabel could see that he was a man in pain. ‘She could be.’

‘So you last heard from her two weeks ago?’ asked Fabel.

‘Yes… no…’ Muller-Voigt made an exasperated gesture. ‘It’s complicated. I got an email from her two days ago. Breaking it off with me. Or that’s what it seemed to be.’

‘Listen, Herr Muller-Voigt, I’m getting confused. You say this woman has been missing for two weeks, and now you’re telling me that you received an email from her two days ago.’ Fabel frowned. ‘One thing is for sure, she’s not the body washed up after the storm. That woman had been in the water for at least two weeks…’

‘Which is exactly how long Meliha has been missing. Listen, Fabel, I choose my words very carefully. When I say Meliha has disappeared, I mean exactly that. I know you think that I’m approaching you because I’m trying to pull strings to have this looked into discreetly and so avoid scandal. But that’s not it at all. Someone has, systematically, erased all trace of Meliha ever having existed. And I can’t report her missing if she doesn’t exist any more. And as for that email, I know it’s fake.’

‘Can I see it?’ asked Fabel.

Muller-Voigt gave a bitter laugh. ‘No. It doesn’t exist any more, either. I didn’t print it out because I never print anything out unless it’s absolutely essential. Environmental grounds, obviously. You’ll have heard of the Klabautermann Virus, I dare say?’

Fabel nodded. ‘Of course. I know the officer who’s been tasked with finding the people behind it.’

‘I have absolutely no idea what these people get out of destroying other people’s data,’ said Muller-Voigt. ‘Probably just the challenge of proving they’re even smarter nerds than the smart nerds who design the software… but, sadly, there are people out there who devote their time to developing ever more virulent, ever more destructive computer viruses. This latest one, the Klabautermann Virus, has been specifically targeted at official intranets and secure government email servers in the north of Germany. Now what is the point of that — other than to disrupt ordinary people’s lives? And the little bastards behind it may not even be anywhere near the north of Germany. They could be in San Jose or Mumbai or Beijing. Or just some spotty pubescent nobody in a back bedroom in Bonningstedt. Whoever they are and wherever they are, they infected the City and State government email. Because I’m logged into it, it got into my laptop and wiped all of my email folders — but not before sending itself to every contact in my address book. In short, thanks to the Klabautermann Virus, I don’t have the email any more.’

‘What makes you convinced it wasn’t her? asked Fabel.

‘I just knew it wasn’t her. You can tell. Everyone has a… I don’t know… a style when writing an email.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘And, I know this sounds mad, but it was too grammatical. Meliha is Turkish. I don’t mean Turkish-German, she’s a Turkish national. Her German was excellent but she made mistakes, like all non-natives. This email was… well, too perfect. And, in any case, email just wasn’t our medium.’

‘Mmm…’ said Fabel. He remembered what Kroeger had said at the briefing about identifying fakes on the internet. Maybe Muller-Voigt could have seen through a phoney email. ‘I have to say I don’t know what I can do, Herr Muller-Voigt. It doesn’t sound like a homicide to me. And, to be frank, not much of a missing-person case, either. But I can get in touch with the local police and get them to look into it.’

Fabel stood up.

‘Listen, Fabel…’ Muller-Voigt stepped forward, as if to block his exit. ‘I don’t know what you think of me, but I do know that you don’t take me for the hysterical type. If anything I’m well known for being the opposite. I am telling you that I am absolutely convinced that a woman I was involved with has been abducted or murdered. I am also telling you that not only can I not offer objective evidence that this has happened, I can’t even offer objective evidence that Meliha existed in the first place.’ Muller-Voigt stood back and indicated the sofa. ‘Please, Fabel, I need your help.’

‘You must know where she lives,’ said Fabel, but he remained standing.

‘I was never there. I had an address for her, but when I called there the flat was empty. I don’t mean she wasn’t in, I mean the flat was unoccupied. I asked a neighbour about her and only succeeded in making the woman suspicious. I left before she called the police. But she did say that the apartment had been empty for more than a month.’

‘You say Meliha was a foreign national?’

‘Turkish, yes.’

‘And she was here in Germany legally?’

‘As far as I am aware.’

‘Then there will be a record of her entering the country. What is her full name?’ asked Fabel, taking his notebook and pen from his inside jacket pocket.

‘Meliha Yazar. She was from somewhere just outside Istanbul. I think it was Silivri.’

Fabel wrote it down.

‘Is there any reason she would lie to you about where she lived?’

‘None that I can think of. I know this sounds insane, but I don’t think she was lying. I think she lived in that apartment. You see, I met Meliha at an environmental conference. At the Hamburg Congress Center.’

‘She was involved with the environmental movement?’

Muller-Voigt nodded. ‘She was a campaigner, an activist, or at least said she was. From what I could gather, she had some kind of Earth-sciences degree from Istanbul. She told me that she worked as a researcher for an environmental protection agency but she was always pretty evasive when I asked which one. The truth is, I suspected she might be some kind of investigative reporter and I was pretty guarded around her at first. I definitely believe that she was into stuff that placed her in danger.’

‘What kind of stuff?’

Muller-Voigt looked at his half-empty whisky glass and put it down on the table. ‘I’m going to make some coffee,’ he said decisively. ‘It’s a long story…’