13.

Twenty-Five Days After the First Murder: Monday, 12 September 2005.


3.00 p.m.: Police Presidium, Hamburg

Fabel spent the greater part of the day collating and analysing the information that the team had gathered, disseminating it, redirecting investigative routes and reallocating resources.

Anna Wolff had taken a photograph of Paul Scheibe into The Firehouse and the black barman had said that Scheibe could have been the older man with whom Hauser had met. But he could not be sure. Fabel was alone in his office when Markus Ullrich, the BKA man, knocked on his door. He was not wearing his trade-mark smile.

‘Herr Fabel… I wonder if I could have a word with you and Frau Klee – in private…’

‘I’m going to Cologne,’ said Maria after Ullrich had finished. ‘This was no bloody accident.’

‘Like hell you are,’ said Fabel. Only he, Ullrich and Maria were in the conference room. ‘It’s up to the Cologne police to investigate this. And it may have escaped your notice, but we are in the middle of our own investigation.’

‘The Cologne police don’t know Vitrenko.’ Maria’s expression had hardened. ‘They clearly believe that this was an accident. An accident and one hell of a coincidence.’

Ullrich held up his hand. ‘They’re not stupid, Frau Senior Commissar. What I said is that the evidence suggests it was an accident. A high-speed blow-out on the autobahn. Believe me, I have left the Cologne police in absolutely no doubt about the significance of Herr Turchenko’s death. And, as I told you, they are already involved in the Vitrenko investigation.’

Fabel remembered sitting in the Presidium canteen, only two weeks before, chatting to Turchenko about Ukraine’s renaissance. Now Turchenko was dead and his GSG9 bodyguard, who had been travelling with him, was lying in a coma in a Cologne hospital.

‘Okay,’ said Maria. ‘I will see this case out. But as soon as we nail this bastard I am going to Cologne to follow up this Turchenko thing.’

‘With the greatest respect,’ said Ullrich, ‘your involvement with our investigation has already led to the disappearance of one witness. You would be well advised to stay out of this.’

Maria ignored the BKA man. ‘As I said, Chef, I am going to Cologne to follow this up as soon as this case is over. I have leave due and I will take it. If you order me not to go I will resign and go anyway. Whatever you say, I am going.’

Fabel sighed. ‘We’ll talk about this later, Maria. But right now I need you focused one hundred per cent on the business at hand.’

Maria nodded curtly.

‘In the meantime,’ said Fabel. ‘I have to see someone about a different matter.’

6.00 p.m.: Schanzenviertel, Hamburg

Beate held the door ajar, anchored to its frame by the security chain. She had seen who it was through the fish-eye lens peephole, but she still did not want to let her guard down until she knew what he was doing there, without an appointment, in the evening. Both the chain and the door lens were new security measures that she had installed since she had heard of Hauser’s and Griebel’s murders. She would not even have answered the door had it not been for the fact that she had read of another murder that had taken place yesterday: a third victim who had absolutely nothing to do with the group. Maybe it had all just been coincidence.

‘I’m sorry,’ the young dark-haired man said earnestly. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you. It’s just that I had to see you. I don’t know how to describe what’s happening to me… I think it must be my rebirth… you know, the way you said it has to happen… I have been having all these dreams.’

‘It is too late. Phone me tomorrow and I will make you a new appointment.’

‘Please,’ said the young man. ‘I think our last session must have stimulated them. I know I am on the verge of a breakthrough, and it’s driving me nuts. I really need your help. I don’t mind paying extra for it being after normal hours…’

Beate examined the earnest young man and sighed. Pushing the door closed, she slid the security chain free of its housing and reopened it to let him in.

‘Thanks, I’m really sorry about the inconvenience. And please excuse this…’ he said as he entered Beate’s apartment, indicating the large holdall he carried in his right hand. ‘I was on my way to the gym…’

7.30 p.m.: Hammerbrook, Hamburg

Heinz Dorfmann was lean and fit-looking, but each of his seventy-nine years had left its mark on him, Fabel found on examining the older man more closely. He had seen the photograph of him together with Karl Heymann: two youths smiling out of a monochrome past. Yet Fabel had seen the corpse of Heymann only a few weeks before: the body of a sixteen-year-old boy; a face bound to an eternal, desiccated youth. Herr Dorfmann excused himself while he went into the small kitchen of his apartment.

‘My wife died seven years ago,’ he said, as if to explain why he had to perform the duty of fetching the coffee himself.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Herr Dorfmann’ said Fabel. As the older man poured the coffee, Fabel took in the room. It was clean and tidy, and to start with Fabel had thought it had not been decorated since the 1970s or early 1980s. But then he realised that it was simply that it had been redecorated in the same style, the same tonal beiges and off-whites over the decades. It always fascinated Fabel, the way older people often became stuck in a particular period: as if that one time defined who they were, or marked when it was that they stopped noticing the world changing around them.

The shelves were filled with books about Hamburg: street plans, photographic studies of the city, history books, reference books of Hamburger Platt, the form of Low German unique to the city, as well as English dictionaries and other language reference books. An embossed copper plaque depicting the Hammaburg fortress, used on the city’s coat of arms, sat on one of the shelves, mounted on a teak shield.

‘You were a tour guide, I believe, Herr Dorfmann?’

‘I was a teacher for twenty years. English. Then I became a tour guide. To begin with I worked for the city and then as a freelancer. Because I speak English so well, most of the time I looked after groups from Canada, America and Great Britain, as well as tours from within Germany. It wasn’t like a job for me. I love my city and I enjoyed helping people discover it. I retired over ten years ago, but I still do part-time work at the Rathaus… taking tourists around the city chambers. You wanted to ask me about Karl Heymann?’ Herr Dorfmann poured the coffee. ‘I tell you, that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long, long time.’

‘You knew him well?’ Fabel showed him the photograph of the two teenage boys, smiling uncertainly at the camera.

‘My goodness.’ Dorfmann smiled. ‘Where on earth did you get that? Karl’s sister took it. I remember posing for that photograph as though it were only yesterday. It was a bright sunny day. Summer of forty-three. One of the hottest I can remember.’ He looked up. ‘Yes, I knew Karl Heymann. He was my friend. We were neighbours and he was in my class at school. Karl was a bright lad. He used to think about things too much at a time when it didn’t pay to think. I also knew his sister Margot – she was a few years older than Karl and always clucked around him like a mother hen. She was a beautiful girl and all the boys were in love with her. Margot absolutely doted on Karl… after he disappeared, she always claimed that he had got away from Germany. That he had taken a job on a freighter to avoid being conscripted. I met her after the war and she told me that Karl had gone to America and was doing very well. She said that Karl had always talked about doing that before the war.’

‘Did you believe her?’

Herr Dorfmann shrugged. ‘That’s what she told me. I wanted to believe it. But we all knew that Karl had gone missing after the night of the firestorm. So many people had. And it was on that night that I saw him for the last time. That night belonged to the dead, Herr Fabel, not to the living. Afterwards, I always just assumed he was one of the dead. Another name on a note pinned to a wall. There were thousands of them, you know. Thousands and thousands – countless pieces of paper with names on them, sometimes with a photograph, asking if anyone had seen them, stuck to the ruins of a house or apartment block, telling them where to find their families. Do you remember they did the same thing when those terrorists attacked the towers in New York? Walls covered with notes and pictures? It was like that, but ten times as many.’

‘You say you saw Karl that night? The night of the twenty-seventh of July?’

‘We lived on the same street. It was just around the corner from here. We were close friends. Not best friends, but close. Karl was a quiet lad. Sensitive. Anyway, we had arranged to head over to the other side of the Alster and were about to take a tram into town together. But we didn’t go.’

‘Why?’

‘We were about to get on the tram when Karl suddenly grabbed my sleeve. He said he thought he should stay close to home. I asked why and he didn’t have a reason. More of a gut feeling, I suppose. Anyway, we didn’t go. We went home and got our bicycles. He was right. It was a night to be close to home.’

‘Were you with Karl when the bombing started?’

Heinz Dorfmann smiled a sad, uncertain smile and for the first time Fabel could detect the ghost of the youth in the photograph with Heymann. ‘As I said, it was a wonderful summer. I remember how tanned we were.’ He tilted his head up, as if towards the phantom of a long-extinguished sun. ‘So bright, so hot. So dry. The British knew that. They knew it and used it to their advantage. They knew they were setting light to a tinderbox.

‘We had become used to the raids. The British had been bombing Bremen and Hamburg during nineteen forty-one but they weren’t able to launch significant raids. The planes had to turn back after only a minute or so over the city. What was more, Hamburg had been well prepared: we had been encouraged to convert and fortify our cellars into bomb shelters. And then there were the huge public shelters. They were massive and could take up to four hundred people easily. The shelters had been built with two-metre-thick concrete and were probably the most bombproof shelters in any European city. They may have protected us from the blasts, but they didn’t protect us from the heat.

‘By nineteen forty-three the British bombers were able to bring much bigger payloads and to stay over the city longer. We were spending more and more time in the shelters. Then, at the end of July nineteen forty-three, the British came over in force. Two nights before they had bombed the city centre… that’s when they hit the Nikolaikirche and the Zoo. The night after that there had been a tiny raid, just to unnerve everyone. But on the night of the twenty-seventh and the morning of the twenty-eighth they turned Hamburg into hell. They made their intention clear in the name they gave their operation – there was no way they could claim that what happened was an accident. “Operation Gomorrah”, they called it. You know what happened to the city of Gomorrah in the Bible, don’t you?’

Fabel nodded.

‘It was just before midnight. For some reason the sirens didn’t give as much warning as usual. We didn’t have a cellar in our building so we all spilled out onto the streets. It was a beautiful clear warm night and the sky was suddenly filled with “Christmas trees” as we had all come to call them. They were beautiful – really beautiful. Huge clusters of sparkling red and green lights, great clouds of them, drifting gracefully down onto the city. I actually stopped to watch them. Of course, what they were were marker flares for the next wave of bombers. I heard it approach. You can’t imagine what it sounded like: the engines of nearly eight hundred warplanes combined into a single deafening, reverberating drone. It is amazing the terror that a sound can stimulate. It was then that we heard another sound. An even more terrible sound. Like thunder, but a thousand times louder, rolling across the city. People started to panic. Running. Screaming. It all became crazy and I lost sight of my family in the crowds. And Karl. I couldn’t see him either. Then he just appeared from nowhere and grabbed my arm. He was mad with worry – he had lost his family too. We decided to head for the main public shelter, assuming our families would do the same.

‘We made it to the public shelter but the blast doors were closed and I had to hammer on them before an old man in a Luftschutz warden’s helmet let us in. We searched but couldn’t find our families and we demanded to be let out again but they wouldn’t open the blast doors. I remember thinking that it didn’t matter. That we were all going to die anyway. I had never heard so many bombs hit us before. It sounded as if some giant was hammering the city flat. Then it eased off. The next wave was not so loud. Quieter explosions, as if they were using a much lighter bomb. But, of course, that wasn’t it. The bastards were dropping phosphorus on us. They had it all planned out: first the high explosives to shatter the buildings and then the phosphorus to start the fires. I had to sit there and think of my mother and my two sisters somewhere out there. I could only hope that they had found a shelter. Karl was the same, but he was almost hysterical about it. He wanted to get out to find his sister and his mother. Everyone had been calm in the shelter to start with, but soon our nerves were as shattered as the buildings outside. Then it started to get hotter. A heat that I can’t begin to describe. That public shelter began to turn into an oven. Like all the shelters, it was airtight apart from the pumps to bring air in from the outside. We were using a manual bellows pump but we had to give up because we were filling the shelter with smoke and scorching hot air. Eventually, we started to suffocate. What we didn’t know was that it was happening in cellars and shelters all over Hamburg. The firestorm, you see. It was like a hungry beast that fed on oxygen. It sucked it out of the air. All over the city, first the children and the old people, then the others, either suffocated or baked to death in the airless shelters. Some of us insisted that the doors were opened so that we could see what was happening outside, but the others said no. Eventually, once the sound of the bombing had ceased, everyone was so desperate for air that it was decided to risk it.

‘I cannot begin to describe what we saw, Herr Fabel. When we opened those doors, it was like opening the gates of Hell itself. The first thing we noticed was the way the air was sucked out of the shelter, dragging people with it. Everything was burning. But not the way you imagine buildings burning. It was like a huge blast-furnace. The British had calculated that by smashing the buildings, then dropping the phosphorus, they could create updraughts that would raise the temperature high enough to cause the spontaneous combustion of buildings, of people, that hadn’t been directly hit. In some parts of the city the temperature hit a thousand degrees. I staggered out of the shelter and I started to pant and gasp as if I’d been running a race. I simply couldn’t get enough air into my lungs. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. People glowing, like torches. There was a child… I don’t know if it was a boy or a girl, but from its size I guessed it was about eight or nine, lying face down, half sunken into the road. The tar had melted, you see. It was then that I saw this figure walking down the street. It was the most horrific, yet most mesmerising thing I have ever seen. It was a woman, holding something close to her chest. I think it was a baby. She was walking in a straight line down the street. Not staggering. Not rushing. But she and the baby in her arms were… the only way I can describe it is incandescent. It was as if they were moulded from a single bright flame. It was like looking at some fire angel. I remember thinking at that moment that it did not matter if I lived or died. That to see such a thing was more than anyone should endure in their lifetime. And then she was gone. As you know, the firestorm created ground draughts of hurricane force. Winds of two hundred and fifty kilometres per hour scooping people up and sucking them into the flames. She and the baby were picked up and swept into a burning building as if the fire had reached out its hand to snap up a morsel.’

Fabel watched the older man. His voice stayed steady, calm; but his eyes were now glossy with unshed tears.

‘I remember cursing God for having given me life. For allowing me to be born at that time of all times; in that place of all places. And I thought that perhaps this was the last of all times. I found it easy to imagine that the whole world would end with this war. It was then that I realised that Karl was not with me any more. I looked around for him, but it was like seeking a single soul in the chaos and horror of Hell.

‘I remember my instinct telling me to get to water. I reckoned that if I got to the Alster or the Elbe – the Alster was nearer – then I would have a better chance of survival.’

Dorfmann looked lost in thought for a moment.

‘I wonder if that’s what Karl was trying to do. You said on the phone that you found him down by the harbour. Maybe he had the idea to get down to the Elbe. By the time I got to the Alster it was already full of people. Dead or dying. More human candles. They had thrown themselves in to try to put the flames out, but they’d been splashed with phosphorus and were still burning as they floated on the water.’

Fabel placed the Nazi identity card and the photograph of the mummified body on the coffee table. Heinz Dorfmann put on his reading glasses again. ‘That’s Karl…’ He frowned when he examined the photograph of the body. ‘This is what he looks like now?’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘It’s amazing. Obviously he is all thin… dried out. But I would have recognised Karl straight away.’

‘Do you know what happened to his sister Margot? Do you have any idea where she lives – if, indeed, she’s still alive? I’m trying to locate any next of kin.’

‘Not that much, I’m afraid. She married an older man after the war was over. His name was Pohle. Gerhard Pohle.’

8.30 p.m.: Hammerbrook, Hamburg

Fabel walked back to his car. It had been raining while he had been in Herr Dorfmann’s apartment and the rain after such a warm day had lent the evening air a freshly washed scent. Fabel looked down at the pavement as he walked, at the damp-darkened asphalt, and he thought back to the description that Herr Dorfmann had given of that hot, dry night when Hamburg had become a burning hell on earth. He could not imagine it. His Hamburg.

He reached his car, unlocked it with the key-fob remote, climbed in and closed the door. He rested his hands on the steering wheel for a moment. History. He had studied it; he had wanted to teach it. The irony was that in investigating these cases, he was becoming smothered by it.

He put the key in the ignition and turned it. Nothing.

‘ Shit! ’ Fabel said in English. Fabel was a man of broad wisdom: his knowledge extended over a variety of subjects and he always enjoyed learning something new, stretching the boundaries of his understanding of the world. But that knowledge did not and never had extended to car mechanics. He bad-temperedly fumbled in his pocket to find his cellphone. He had just retrieved it when it preempted him by ringing. He snapped it open.

‘Hello…’ He failed to keep the irritation from his voice.

‘Hello, Herr Fabel…’

Fabel knew it was the killer. The caller had again used some kind of electronic filter that altered his or her voice. It came across the connection as unnaturally deep and slow, distorted, artificial. Inhuman. ‘I am so glad you did not remove your key from the ignition; otherwise we would not be having this conversation.’

‘What do you mean?’ Fabel’s mouth suddenly went dry. He knew what the caller meant. A bomb. He leaned forward and searched the car’s floor at his feet; checked under the steering column for wires. ‘Who is this?’

‘We can talk about that in a minute, Herr Fabel. But, for now, I need you to know that I have planted an unnecessarily large explosive device in your car. If you open the door for a second time, the device will detonate; if you remove the key from the ignition, the device will detonate; or if you take your weight off the driver’s seat… well, I think you get the picture. I’m afraid the consequence of any of these actions would be a disproportionately large explosion. It would result not just in your demise, Herr Fabel, but in the deaths of several residents of Hammerbrook, as well as widespread damage to property throughout the area. Oh, I should also tell you that I can, at any time of my choosing, also detonate the device remotely.’

‘Okay,’ said Fabel. ‘You’ve got my attention.’ He could feel his heart pound in his chest. He looked out through his windshield at a pleasant summer’s evening, at the rain-washed street and the red that the low sun had splashed on the west-facing walls of the buildings. At people going about their business. Fabel felt so alone in the centre of his own universe, the only one aware that death and destruction were only a breath away. Suddenly, the images that Herr Dorfmann had conjured in Fabel’s mind earlier returned with a renewed clarity. A young couple with a toddler in a pushchair strolled past Fabel’s BMW, walking with no apparent purpose other than to enjoy the summer evening. Fabel wanted to wind down his window and scream at them to run and take cover but, for all he knew, the windows too were booby-trapped. He watched them take what seemed like an eternity to pass the car.

‘I’m sure I do have your attention, Herr Fabel.’ The electronically distorted voice had been stripped of any subtlety of intonation. ‘And I expect to have the attention of a great many other Polizei Hamburg officers, including the bomb squad, for a few hours to come. You see, it suits me better to leave you alive, because it will take an age for your people to extricate you from this situation. Added to which is the time your forensics people will have to spend on site. But don’t be in any doubt that if you try anything inadvisable, I will detonate the device. The effect will still be the same.’

Fabel’s mind raced. For all he knew, the person on the phone could be watching him from a safe distance. He scanned both sides of the street and checked the rear-view mirror, doing his best to keep his backside firmly planted on the seat.

‘So all of a sudden you’re an explosives expert?’ Fabel’s voice was thick with contempt. ‘You expect me to believe that you have the capability to plant a bomb in my car, in a public street, while I was away from it for forty-five minutes? I thought taking scalps was the name of your game, Winnetou.’

‘Very amusing.’ The low, distorted voice laughed and it sounded like something from a nightmare. ‘ Winnetou… But don’t pretend you don’t understand my cultural references, Herr Fabel. I am no Red Indian, no character out of a Karl May novel. You know that the tradition I revive is very ancient and very European in its origin. And, in any case, please feel free to test my skills as a bomb designer… or hoaxer. All you have to do is step out of your car. If I’m lying, nothing will happen. On the other hand… As for the device

… it has been attached to your vehicle for some time. I have merely activated it remotely. Oh, by the way, did you like the little gift I left you in your apartment?’

‘You sick bastard…’ Fabel hissed into the phone. ‘I’m going to get you. I swear to you that I will find you, no matter how long it takes.’

‘You know, Herr Fabel, you are remarkably aggressive for a man who is currently sitting on a large quantity of high explosives. If I were to hit the right button, you would be incapable of getting anyone. Ever. So why don’t you simply shut up and listen to what I have to say?’

Fabel said nothing. He felt a film of sweat between his ear and his cellphone. His heart still pounded and he felt sick. He believed the inhuman voice in his ear. He believed in the bomb beneath him.

‘Good,’ said the voice. ‘Now we can talk. First of all, you may be wondering why I have gone to such lengths to place you in peril. And, for that matter, why I have not detonated the bomb before now. Well, it’s simple. As I said, extricating you from this particular predicament will take time. And while it is all going on I shall be taking another scalp. It’s an interesting predicament for you, Herr Fabel. You will have to decide how many resources are devoted to rescuing you and how many to stopping me ending another life.’

‘We have more resources than you can tie up,’ said Fabel in a flat, dead voice.

‘That’s as may be, but I have to tell you that you are sitting on only one of a pair of bombs. The other is at a location which I shall not disclose at the moment. But I have printed a note with the address and all the details.’

‘Where?’

‘That’s the thing. I have attached the address to the explosive in the bomb in your car. So, even if the bomb squad find a way of disabling the pressure switch under your seat or in the door, they cannot carry out a controlled explosion. If they do, they destroy the only clue to the location of the second bomb. And the second bomb will be detonated, trust me, Herr Fabel.’

‘When? What time is the second bomb set to go off?’

‘I said nothing about it being on a timer, Herr Fabel.’

‘So now you’re a terrorist? What is this all about?’

‘You are not a stupid man, Herr Fabel. This has always been about terrorism, as you call it. It’s also about betrayal. Which brings me to my main point. I want you to resign from this case. Take a holiday. A break. I have given you an excuse. The stress of this current ordeal. You see, Herr Fabel, I am now going to volunteer more information about this case than you have been able to gather yourself. The people I am killing deserve to die. They are murderers themselves. And when I have finished I shall never kill again. There are not many left, Fabel. Only another two. After they are dead, I shall disappear and never kill again. And, as I said, all of my victims are guilty. In fact, you yourself would consider them guilty of crimes against the state.’

‘Hauser? Griebel? Scheibe? Are you telling me they were terrorists?’

‘You heard what I said.’ The electronically deadened voice spoke without passion. ‘But mark this well, Herr Fabel, it is your decision. You can choose to withdraw from the case and allow me to finish what I have started, or I will add other victims to my list. Very specific victims. No one need know about this aspect of our conversation. You can choose to walk away and live your life, and to allow others to live theirs. At the end of the day, the people I have to execute are nothing to you. But others, Fabel… Other people who do not deserve to die may die, depending on the choice you make. I am going to hang up now. I suggest you contact your colleagues in the bomb squad without delay. But, before I go, I’m going to send you a few photographs on your cellphone. By the way… such beautiful hair. A wonderful shade of auburn. Almost red.’

The line went dead. The phone trilled and the screen told Fabel that he had received a message with images. He opened the message and his gut gave a sudden, intense lurch.

‘You bastard…’ Fabel felt tears sting his eyes as he scrolled through the images.

He looked through them again. Photographs of a girl with long auburn hair. Photographs of her on her way home from school; of her with her friends; of her shopping in the stores on Neuer Wall with her father.

9.15 p.m.: Hammerbrook, Hamburg

The entire street had been turned into a stage set. Fabel sat squinting against the dazzle of the arc lights, mounted on high stands, that had been set up around his car. The area had been completely evacuated and Fabel found himself worrying about what they had said to Herr Dorfmann as they ushered him from his home: anything but that there was a bomb in his street.

The first person to talk to Fabel was the commander from the LKA7 bomb squad, who approached the car alone. The commander spoke in an even tone, but loudly so that Fabel could hear him through the glass of the still-closed side window, and asked him to remember absolutely everything the caller had told him about the device, as well as anything he had said that might give them a clue as to where the second bomb was hidden. Fabel’s mouth was dry and he had felt sick, but he tried to stay composed and focused as he went through every detail.

The bomb-squad commander listened, nodded, took notes and all the time spoke in a steady voice of practised calm, which only served to make Fabel more anxious about his situation. Nor did the appearance of the bomb-squad boss do much to put Fabel’s mind at ease: he had appeared beside Fabel’s car wearing a wide apron of thick Kevlar, divided into articulated segments, over his black overalls, his head encased in a heavy helmet and his face shielded by a thick perspex visor. The specialist eased himself down and lay on his side beside the car, extending a telescopic black pole with a mirror at its end and slowly and carefully sliding it beneath the car.

After a moment, he re-emerged at Fabel’s window, grunting with the effort of straightening himself. ‘Okay…’ He smiled grimly. ‘I’m afraid it’s no hoax – or not as far as I can see. Unless it’s a very convincing-looking dummy, we would appear to have a very substantial amount of high explosive strapped to the underside of your car. We will get you out of this, Herr Chief Commissar. I can promise you that. But you’re going to have to sit tight for a while.’

Fabel smiled weakly, leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. He felt impotent and helpless. Fabel knew that he was almost obsessive about being in control and minimising the random element. But now he was in a situation over which he had absolutely no control. He tried not to think about the explosives beneath him, about the fact that his life lay as much in the hands of the specialists who would defuse the bomb as it would if they were surgeons and he lay on an operating table. All he could do was sit there, without moving, and wait to be liberated.

At least it bought him time to think.

He knew that his team would be somewhere on the perimeter of the evacuated area, waiting. When he had phoned in to the Presidium, he had spoken first to the bomb squad and then had asked for the Murder Commission. But the bomb squad had told Fabel not to make any more calls on his cellphone and to switch it off as soon as he hung up. Fabel could have left some kind of message, but he had decided not to. He still didn’t know what he was going to tell his colleagues. Seeing the photographs of Gabi had spooked him badly.

This guy had obviously been tailing Fabel. Stalking him. That would explain, perhaps, how he had found out about Leonard Schuler: the arrogant son of a bitch must have somehow been tracking every move that the Murder Commission team made. Maybe he had even followed Schuler home from the Presidium. No. That did not fit. How could he have known about Schuler? The young thief had been brought in by a uniform unit. Schuler had only ever been seen by the murder team while inside the Presidium building. An idea started to form in Fabel’s brain: Leonard Schuler had not been fully honest about what he saw; about all he knew about the killer. Why had Schuler held back? Had he been involved in the killings after all? Had he been in this together with the voice on the phone? Maybe Fabel’s radar had been faulty on this one.

Three LKA7 bomb-disposal officers joined their commander. They brought with them four large black canvas holdalls which they placed a few metres from the car and took equipment from them, laying it out on the ground. Fabel took comfort from the clearly well-practised methodology and the reassuringly purposeful movements of the squad members. Two officers took something that looked like an oversized chunky laptop computer along with some cables and disappeared from Fabel’s view and under the car.

Fabel sat in the BMW convertible that he had owned for six years and waited. As he did so, he did his best to think his way though this mess.

Gabi. Fabel had fought back the instinct to panic, to get the bomb squad to tell his team to arrange protection for her. If he had, he would have shown his cards to the killer, who would know that Fabel had divulged all their conversation to his superiors. For now, Gabi was safe: whatever business the Hamburg Hairdresser had that evening, it involved one of the people on his list. Gabi was his trump card held back for the moment. Fabel knew that while the killer had seemed to tell him more than would be advisable, he had told him only those things that he wanted Fabel to know. At least now Fabel knew for sure that this was all about the victims’ past.

There was a tapping sound from under the car as the bomb-disposal specialists worked. Delicate work, but to Fabel’s fear-heightened senses every tap reverberated through the car and his body like a hammer striking a bell.

He could do it. He could just drop the case. In fact, if he told Criminal Director van Heiden exactly what the killer had said to him his boss would probably insist that he pass the case on. Fabel reflected bitterly on the truth of the killer’s logic: these people meant nothing to him; his daughter meant everything. Give up the case. Let someone else take it on.

More tapping. Fabel’s mouth felt even dryer. He looked at his watch: 11.45 p.m. For three hours he had not been able to open a door or window and consequently had not had access to water. Maybe it would end here. A slip of a pair of pliers, the wrong connection severed, and it would all be over. This could be the end of the path he had taken all those years ago, after Hanna Dorn had been murdered. The wrong path.

Sitting in the stifling heat of his car, aware of every sound made and every move taken by the bomb-disposal specialists beneath him, Fabel was conscious of the fact that the person he had spoken to on his cellphone nearly three hours ago had probably already murdered and mutilated another victim. Ideas and images bustled around in a brain that was too tired to think; that had been too afraid for too long to see beyond this single experience. The pictures of his daughter, taken covertly by a maniac, flashed repeatedly through his head.

As Jan Fabel sat there, waiting for rescue or for death, he made a decision about his future.

It happened so fast that it was all over before Fabel knew what was happening. Suddenly the car door was thrown open by one of the bomb-squad team and he was being pulled out by another. The two men rushed Fabel clear of the car, out of the glare of the arc lights and across to the secured perimeter. Van Heiden, Anna Wolff, Werner Meyer, Henk Hermann, Maria Klee, Frank Grueber and Holger Brauner were all gathered by the cordon. Grueber and Brauner were already kitted out in their forensic oversuits, as were the five-strong forensics team with them. Fabel was handed a bottle of water which he gulped at greedily.

The LKA7 commander came over to Fabel. ‘We’ve made safe the device. We’re taking it apart to find the location for the second bomb. So far, nothing. What’s the deal with this guy, Herr Fabel? Is he a terrorist or an extortionist, or just a maniac?’

‘All of the above,’ said Fabel wearily.

‘Whatever his motive, this guy knows what he’s doing.’ The bomb-squad chief made to head off to his armoured vehicle. Fabel stopped him by placing a hand on his arm.

‘He’s not the only one who knows what they’re doing,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’ The bomb-squad commander smiled.

‘You okay, Jan?’ asked Werner.

Fabel took another slug from the water bottle. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘No, Werner. Far from it.’ He turned to van Heiden. ‘We need to talk, Herr Criminal Director.’

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