Eternal jf-3 Read online

  Fabel looked at the photographs again. It was a very ordinary, very old-fashioned bicycle; not a particularly obvious choice for a psychotic killer to take as a trophy. Unless, of course, the killer knew of Hauser’s attachment to it. But why would you leave the scalp and take the bike?

  ‘Do we know if there is anything else missing from Dr Griebel’s home?’

  ‘Not that we can ascertain…’ It was Anna who answered. ‘Dr Griebel also had a housekeeper – probably not as thorough as Kristina Dreyer, but she says she can’t see anything obviously missing.’

  ‘Okay…’ Fabel handed the photographs back to Henk. ‘Get on to uniform branch – I want this to be the most hunted missing bicycle in German police history.’

  After Henk and Anna had left his office, Fabel phoned Susanne at the Institute for Legal Medicine. Susanne was doing a fuller assessment of Kristina Dreyer before it was decided if charges should be brought against her for wilfully destroying evidence. Officially, she was still a suspect for the first murder, but the single red hair left at each of the murder scenes, as well as the scalping of the victims in exactly the same manner, indicated that they were dealing with the same killer in each case.

  ‘I’ll have my report ready tomorrow, Jan,’ Susanne explained. ‘To be honest, I am recommending that she has a clinical assessment by a hospital psychologist and we involve social services. My opinion is that she cannot be held responsible for her actions in cleaning up the murder scene.’

  ‘I tend to agree with you, just from talking to her and knowing her history. But I’m going to talk to this Dr Minks, the Fear Clinic psychologist, about her.’ Fabel paused. ‘It almost wasn’t worth going away, was it? Being hit by all this crap as soon as we got back.’

  ‘Never mind…’ Susanne’s voice was warm and sounded almost sleepy. ‘Come over to my place tonight and I’ll cook us something nice. We can go through the property pages in the Abendblatt and see what’s available in our price range.’

  ‘I know two properties that are about to come on the market,’ said Fabel glumly. ‘Their owners have no need for them now.’

  5.30 p.m.: Blankenese, Hamburg

  By the time the phone rang, Paul Scheibe had managed a good three hours’ drinking. The warmth of the French grape had not, however, managed to thaw the chill of fear that bound his gut tight. His face was pasty and sleeked with a greasy cold sweat.

  ‘Find a payphone and call me back on this number. Do not use your cellphone.’ The voice on the other end gave the number and the line went dead. Scheibe reached clumsily for a pencil and paper and scribbled down the number.

  The late-afternoon light seemed to dazzle Scheibe as he walked from his villa down towards the Elbe shore. Blankenese was built on a steep bank and is famed for its pathways made up of thousands of steps. Scheibe, his feet heavy after his afternoon’s drinking, shambled his way to the payphone that he knew was down by the beach.

  His call was answered after one ring. He thought he could hear the sound of heavy equipment in the background. ‘It’s me,’ said Scheibe. The three bottles of Merlot had made his voice thick and slurred.

  ‘You prick,’ the voice at the other end of the phone hissed. ‘You never, ever use my office or cellphone number for anything other than official calls. After all these years, and particularly with everything that’s going on, I would have thought that you would have had enough sense not to risk exposure.’

  ‘I’m sorry-’

  ‘Don’t say my name, you fool…’ The voice at the other end cut him off.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Scheibe repeated lamely. Something more than the wine thickened his voice. ‘I panicked. Christ… first Hans-Joachim, now Gunter. This is no coincidence. Someone is taking us out one by one…’

  There was a small silence on the other side of the line. ‘I know. It certainly looks like that.’

  ‘It looks like that?’ Scheibe snorted. ‘For God’s sake, man – did you read what they did to them both? Did you read about the thing with the hair?’

  ‘I read it.’

  ‘It’s a message. That’s what it is – a message. Don’t you get it? The killer dyed their hair red. Someone is going after every member of the group. I’m getting out. I’m going to drop out of sight. Maybe go abroad or something…’ There was a note of desperation in Scheibe’s voice: the desperation of a man without a plan, pretending he had a strategy for dealing with something there was no dealing with.

  ‘You’ll stay where you are,’ the voice on the other end of the phone snapped. ‘If you make a run for it, you’ll draw attention to yourself – and to the rest of us. For the moment the police think they’re looking for a random killer.’

  ‘So I just sit here and wait to be scalped?’

  ‘You sit there and wait for instructions. I’ll make contact with the others…’

  The phone went dead. Scheibe continued to hold the receiver to his ear and stared blankly out over the grass-fringed sand of the Blankenese shore, across the Elbe and watched as a vast container ship slipped silently by. He felt his eyes sting and a great, leaden sadness seemed to coalesce in his chest as he thought of another Paul Scheibe: the Paul Scheibe he had once been, swaggering with the arrogant certainties of youth. A past-tense Paul Scheibe whose decisions and actions had now come back to haunt him.

  The past was tearing his present asunder. His past was catching up with him… and it would cost him his life.

  6.

  Five Days After the First Murder: Tuesday, 23 August 2005.

  10.00 a.m.: Archaeology Department, Universitat Hamburg

  Severts’s smile was as wide as his long narrow face would permit. He was not dressed in the same way as he had been on site in the HafenCity: he wore corded trousers, a rough tweed jacket with unfashionably narrow lapels and a checked shirt, open at the neck and with a dark T-shirt underneath. But while the style of his clothing was nominally more formal than it had been on the site, the earth-toned colour scheme remained the same. Severts’s office was bright and spacious but cluttered with books, files and archaeological objects. A vast picture window flooded the room with light, but only afforded a view of another wing of the university.

  The archaeologist asked Fabel to take a seat. As he did so, Fabel was surprised that there was something about Severts’s dress, his office, the accoutrements of his trade that stimulated a small, sad envy in him. For a moment Fabel considered how he had so very nearly followed a similar path; how his passion had been European history and how as a student he had already rolled out the map of his future and plotted out the route of his career. Then there had been a single, senseless act of intense violence, the shock of the death of someone close to him at the hands of a stranger, and all the expected landmarks had been erased from his landscape.

  Instead of becoming an investigator of the past, he became an investigator of death.

  On the wall behind Severts’s desk a large map of Germany detailed all the major archaeological sites in the Federal Republic, the Netherlands and Denmark. Next to it was a huge poster. The image was striking: it was of a dead woman, lying on her back. She was wearing a hooded woollen cloak bound tight around her long, slim body. The hood was capped with a tall feather and the woman’s long red-brown hair was centre-parted. The skin of her face and that of her legs, which could be seen between the fringe of her cloak and her fur moccasins, had the same papery look as the HafenCity corpse, but had stained darker.

  ‘Ah…’ Severts noticed that the poster had caught Fabel’s attention. ‘I see you are captivated by her too… The love of my life. She possesses a unique ability to capture men’s hearts. And to bewilder us – she has done more than her fair share of setting everything we believed about Europe on its head. Herr Fabel, allow me to introduce a true woman of mystery… the Beauty of Loulan.’

  ‘The Beauty of Loulan,’ repeated Fabel. ‘Loulan… where is that, exactly?’

  ‘That is the thing!’ Severts said animatedly. ‘Tell me, where do you thi
nk she is from? Her ethnicity, I mean?’

  Fabel shrugged. ‘I’m assuming that she’s European, from her hair colour and features. Although I suppose the feather gives her a native North American look.’

  ‘And how old do you think my girlfriend is?’

  Fabel looked closer. The woman had clearly been mummified, but she was much better preserved than any of the bog bodies he had seen. ‘I don’t know… a thousand years… fifteen hundred at most.’

  Severts shook his head slowly, his beaming smile still in place. ‘I told you she was a woman of mystery. This mummified body, Herr Fabel, is over four thousand years old. She is nearly two metres tall, her hair colour in life was either red or blonde. And as for where she was discovered… there’s the mystery and the intrigue.’ He walked over to a filing cabinet and pulled out a thick box file.

  ‘My family scrapbook,’ explained Severts. ‘Mummies are a passion of mine.’ He sat down at his desk and flicked through the file’s contents, all of which seemed to be large photographs with yellow notes attached to each with a paper clip. Then he handed Fabel a large glossy print. ‘This gentleman is from the same part of the world. He is known as Cherchen Man. I was going to show you him anyway, because he is rather pertinent to the case of the mummified body down by the Elbe in HafenCity. Take a look. This man has been dead for three thousand years.’

  Fabel looked at the photograph. It was astonishing. For a moment the policeman became once more the student of history and he felt the old butterflies-in-the-stomach excitement that he experienced when a window into the past opened. The man in the picture was perfectly preserved. The similarity with the HafenCity corpse was astounding, except that the man in the picture, dead for three millennia, had even preserved his skin tone. He was fair-skinned and his hair was a dark blond. He had a neatly trimmed beard and his full lips were slightly parted, twisted up in one corner to expose perfect teeth.

  ‘Cherchen Man was preserved because he lay undisturbed for three thousand years in an anaerobic environment. The process of mummification is exactly the same as the body in the HafenCity. Both represent a moment in time seized and kept perfect for us to look into.’

  ‘It is amazing…’ said Fabel. He studied the man again. It was a face he could have encountered that same day, in modern Hamburg.

  ‘We talk about the distant past.’ Severts seemed to have read Fabel’s thoughts. ‘But although he lived three thousand years ago, that only represents one hundred-odd generations. Think about it: such a small number of people, father and son, mother and daughter, separate this man from you and me. Herr Brauner told me that you studied history, so you’ll understand what I mean when I say that we are not as separated from our histories, from our pasts, as we like to think. But there’s more to this gentleman. Like the Beauty of Loulan, Cherchen Man was tall, over two metres in height. He would have been about fifty-five when he died. As you can see, he was fair-haired and fair-skinned.’

  Severts leaned forward. ‘You see, Herr Fabel, none of us are who we think we are. Both the Beauty of Loulan and Cherchen Man are among a number of incredibly well-preserved bodies found in the same area with the same cultural indicators. They wore multicoloured plaid, similar to Scottish tartans, they were all tall and fair. And they all lived, between four thousand and three thousand years ago, in the same part of the world. You see, Herr Fabel, Cherchen and Loulan are both in modern China. These bodies are known as the mummies of Urumchi. They’re from the Tamir Basin in the Uyghur Autonomous Region of Western China. It is an arid area and these bodies were buried in extremely dry, extremely fine sand. It is said that the Chinese archaeologist who uncovered the Loulan woman wept when he looked upon her beauty. Their discovery caused quite a stir, and the Chinese authorities and archaeological establishment are very much opposed to the premise that Europeans migrated to and occupied the region four millennia ago. Uyghur lies where the Turkic and Chinese ethnicities collide and Turkic nationalists have claimed the Beauty of Loulan as a symbol of their hereditary right to occupy the region. However, these mummies are no more Turkic than they are Chinese. These people were culturally Celts. Perhaps even Proto-Celts. DNA tests on the mummies carried out in 1995 proved once and for all that they were Europeans. They had genetic markers that linked them to modern-day Finns and Swedes, as well as some to people living in Corsica, Sardinia and Tuscany.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Fabel. ‘I recall reading something about the discoveries. If I remember correctly, the Chinese government did all they could to play down the finds. It challenged their sense of ethnic singularity as a nation.’

  ‘And we all know the dangers of that kind of mentality,’ said Severts. ‘As I said, none of us are who we think we are.’ He swivelled his chair around and again looked up at the picture of the mummified woman. ‘Whatever the debate that surrounds them, the Beauty of Loulan and Cherchen Man are part of our world now. Our time. And they are here to talk to us about their previous lives. Just as your mummy in the HafenCity has something to say about his much nearer time.’ Severts pointed to the photograph in Fabel’s hands of the three-thousand-year-old man. ‘Despite the vast difference between the times they lived in, there is very little difference in the state of preservation of your mummy and Cherchen Man. If we hadn’t uncovered him, “HafenCity Man” could also have lain undisturbed for three thousand years. And he would have emerged unchanged from his rest. He would have looked exactly the same… obviously we can use dating technology to establish rough timescales but, generally speaking, we often depend more on the artefacts and the immediate excavated environment to establish the exact time to which a body belongs. Which brings me back to our twentieth-century mummy.’ Severts reached into his desk drawer and took out a sealed plastic bag. It contained a small black wallet and a pocket-sized piece of what looked like dark brown card.

  Fabel took the bag and opened it. The card was folded into a small booklet form. On the front was the eagle and swastika emblem of the Nazi regime.

  ‘His identity card,’ said Severts. ‘Now you have a name for your body.’

  The identity card felt dry and brittle in Fabel’s hands. Everything seemed to be different shades of the same brown, including the photograph. He could, however, make out the unsmiling face of a young blond man. Adolescence lingered in the face, but the harder angles of manhood were becoming apparent. Fabel was surprised that he recognised him instantly as the body by the river.

  Karl. The face Fabel was looking at now, the face he had looked down on in the HafenCity site was that of Karl Heymann, born February 1927, resident in Hammerbrook, Hamburg. Fabel read the details again. He would have been seventy-eight. Fabel found the fact difficult to comprehend. Time had simply stopped for Karl Heymann, sixteen years old, in 1943. He had been condemned to an eternal youth.

  Fabel examined the leather wallet. It too had lost any suppleness and its surface was like coarse parchment under the detective’s fingertips. Inside were the remains of some Reichsmark notes and a photograph of a young blonde girl. Fabel’s first thought was that it was Heymann’s sweetheart, but he could just discern a common look. A sister, perhaps.

  Fabel thanked Severts and, as he rose to his feet, handed him back the photograph of Cherchen Man. As Severts opened the box file to replace the picture, another image caught Fabel’s eye.

  ‘Now there’s someone I know…’ Fabel smiled. ‘An East Frisian, like myself. May I?’

  Fabel removed the photograph. Unlike the other mummies, the face was almost completely skeletonised, with only intermittent patches of brown leathery skin stretched across the fleshless bone. What made this mummy remarkable was the fact that his full, thick mane of hair, along with his beard, had remained completely intact. And it had been his hair that had given him his name. Because, although this mummy was officially known by the name of the Frisian village near to which he had been uncovered in 1900, it had been his mane of vibrant, strikingly red hair that had captured the imagination of archaeologists and publ
ic alike.

  ‘Yes indeed,’ said Severts. ‘The famous “Red Franz”. Or more correctly, Neu Versen Man. Magnificent, isn’t he? And from your neck of the woods, you say?’

  ‘More or less. I’m from further north in Ostfriesland. Norddeich. Neu Versen is on the Bourtanger Moor. But I’ve known about Red Franz since I was a kid.’

  ‘Now he’s a perfect example of what I was saying about these people having a second life – a life in our time. He’s currently touring the world as part of the “Mysterious People of the Bog” exhibition. He’s in Canada at the moment, if I’m right. But he highlights what Franz Brandt said to you down at the HafenCity about the different types of mummification. He is a bog body and totally different from the Urumchi bodies. All his flesh has rotted away and only his skin remains, toughened and tanned by the bog’s acids into what is basically a leather sack containing his skeleton. But it’s his hair that’s amazing. Obviously it wasn’t that colour originally. It has been dyed by the tannins in the bog.’

  Fabel stared at the image in his hands as he listened to Severts. Red Franz, the corona of his red hair flamebursting from his skull, his jaw gaping wide, seemed to scream out at Fabel. The hair. The dyed red hair.

  Fabel felt a chill run down his spine.

  11.00 a.m.: Altona Nord, Hamburg

  Maria asked Werner if he could cover for an hour or so. However, while she asked she was already standing up and taking her jacket from the back of her chair, making it more of a statement than a request. Werner pushed his chair back from his desk, which faced Maria’s, and leaned back, looking at her appraisingly.

  ‘He’s not going to be happy if he finds out…’ Werner rubbed his bristly scalp with both hands.

  ‘Who?’ Maria said. ‘Find out what?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. You’re off to sniff around this Olga X case, aren’t you? The Chef has made it clear that you’re to drop it.’

  ‘I’m just doing what he asked me. I’m going over to Organised Crime to brief them on the background. Will you cover for me or not?’