The Carnival Master

10.

They stood and stared at the three clear plastic packages on Anna’s desk: one containing an ancient-looking Walther P4 handgun, the other holding a carrier bag with cash and the third with a large dog-eared book in it. Each of them was sealed and labelled with a blue evidence tag.

‘We found it outside the store,’ said Anna Wolff, indicating the book. She was in charge of the case. ‘Philosophy. That’s what Tschorba studied – at one time, anyway.’

Fabel continued to stare silently at the evidence bags.

Anna ran through what had happened in the convenience store. The Turkish owner had said in his statement that Breidenbach had died bravely; that the young policeman had been determined that the robber would not go out into the street with a handgun. He also stated that he had got the idea to jump Tschorba from Breidenbach, who had told the gunman that he couldn’t take them both. As Timo Tschorba had fired the fatal shots into Breidenbach’s body, the shopkeeper had thrown himself at him. Tschorba was now in the cells, his swollen and bruised face bearing the marks of the encounter with the Turk. Once the shopkeeper had disarmed the junkie, he had rushed over to Breidenbach, but the young policeman was already dead. He admitted that when he had seen that, he had gone back and pistol-whipped Tschorba, who had cried like a child.

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Fabel at last. ‘He was there. I mean Breidenbach. He was there at the Aichinger incident. He was the MEK trooper who came up to the apartment with me.’ He shook his head mournfully. ‘I behaved like an arsehole… I treated Breidenbach as if he were less of a policeman than me. Just because he was a tactical weapons specialist. I was wrong. He was a police officer first and foremost.’

Anna went through the statement, including Tschorba’s confession, the ballistics and forensics report and the initial observations from Moller, the pathologist. Fabel took in very little. It was the Murder Commission mantra of dry facts and figures, of times and causes of death, of wounded flesh and rendered fabric. He had heard it so, so many times before. His thoughts still held him on a landing of a block of flats in Jenfeld with a young MEK trooper just starting his career as Fabel was ending his. He found he could not forgive himself for making sweeping judgements about Breidenbach’s motivations and ambitions. Fabel thought about Breidenbach’s youth, about how fit he had been, and then imagined him lying grey and blood-drained on Moller’s stainless steel autopsy table, sliced open, the vestigial warmth from his inner organs dissipating into the cool autopsy-room air.

After Anna’s briefing, he asked Werner to come into his office. This had become an almost daily ritual since Fabel’s resignation: the gradual transfer of responsibility to his friend. It had always been Maria that he had envisaged taking over, but that was simply not going to happen. He updated Werner on the caseload, confirming that Anna and Henk Hermann should see through the Breidenbach murder. When they were finished Fabel switched on his voicemail and took his jacket from behind the door.

‘I’m finishing for the afternoon. Got shopping to do,’ he explained to Werner. He indicated his desk, the files still lying on it from their meeting. ‘Why don’t you do your paperwork there? Might as well get used to it.’