Eternal jf-3 Page 13

  Werner responded to the aggressive edge in Maria’s voice by shrugging his heavy shoulders. ‘I can handle anything that comes in.’

  It depressed Maria each time she saw it.

  This structure had once contained a purpose. At one time people had spent their working days here, had eaten their lunches in the canteen, had chatted with each other or had discussed productivity, profits, wage rises. This wide single-storey building in Altona-Nord had been a factory once: a small one, probably engaged in light engineering or something similar, but now it was a bleak, empty shell. Hardly any of the windows remained intact; the walls were scarred by patches of missing plaster or punctuated by graffiti; the floors were thick with powdery plaster dust and piles of rubble or litter.

  It was an unlikely venue for love.

  But this building provided somewhere for the ‘lower end’ of Hamburg’s prostitution business to conduct its trade: mostly heroinor other drug-dependent girls who undercut the prices of the more appealing Herbertstrasse and other Kiez hookers. The girls who worked down here were volume traders: turning over as many tricks as fast as possible to feed their habits or their pimps’ wallets. The evidence was there, starkly presented in the bleak daylight: used condoms lay scattered across the filthy factory floor.

  Olga X had not been a drug user. The post-mortem had established that. Olga had been driven to sell her body in this sordid, squalid place by some other compulsion.

  Maria walked across the large void of the main part of the factory, stopping a few metres short of the corner. Ironically, it was clean and empty: the forensic team who had attended the scene had removed every piece of rubble for examination. That had been three months ago, and it seemed that this particular corner had been avoided by the girls who brought their clients here. Perhaps they felt it was jinxed. Or haunted. Only one item had been added: a small posy of wilted flowers sat forlornly in the corner. Someone had left it as a pathetic remembrance of the life that had been snuffed out there.

  Maria remembered the corner the way it had been when she had first seen it. As if her mind had photographed and filed the scene, it always came perfect and complete to her recollection. Olga had not been a big girl. She had been slightly built and light-boned and had lain in a tangle of legs and arms in this corner, her blood and the dust of the floor mixed in a dull, gritty paste. Maria had never let murder scenes get to her the way her male colleagues did. But this killing had got to her. She had not really understood why seeing the fragile remains of an anonymous prostitute had caused her sleepless nights, but the thought had come to her more than once that it might have had something to do with the fact that she herself had so very nearly become a murder victim. The other thing that had stung her about this girl’s death was the way Olga had been cheated. Most of the murders that the Polizei Hamburg Murder Commission investigated belonged to a certain milieu: the hard-core drinkers and drug users, the thieves and the dealers, and, of course, the prostitutes. But this girl had been forced into this world. What had seemed the promise of a new life in the West with a proper job and a brighter future had been a sham. Instead Olga, or whatever her real name had been, had handed over her own cash, probably all the money she had or could scrape together, to sell herself unknowingly into slavery and a sordid, anonymous death.

  Maria knelt down and examined the wilted posy. It wasn’t much, but at least someone had recognised that a person, a human being with a past, with hopes and dreams, had lost her life here. Someone had cared enough to lay the flowers here; and now, after a lot of discreet asking around, Maria knew who that someone was.

  She straightened up when she heard the echoing slam of the door at the far side of the factory, followed by the sound of footsteps.

  11.10 a.m.: Eppendorf, Hamburg

  ‘This is highly irregular, you know.’ Dr Minks led Fabel into his consulting room and gestured towards the leather chair in a vague invitation for Fabel to be seated. ‘I mean, I will not compromise patient confidentiality, as you will already understand.’ Minks crumpled into the seat opposite Fabel and regarded the Chief Commissar over the top of his glasses. ‘Normally I would not discuss a patient without a warrant being issued, but Frau Dreyer has assured me personally that she is happy for me to discuss any aspect of her condition or treatment with you. I have to say that I am not as comfortable with the situation as she seems to be.’

  ‘I understand that,’ said Fabel. He felt strangely vulnerable sitting in the chair facing this odd little man in a creased suit. Fabel realised that he was seated where he would be were he a patient of Dr Minks; he felt more than a little ill at ease. ‘But I have to tell you that I do not believe that Kristina Dreyer is guilty of anything other than destroying valuable forensic evidence. Even that is not something that we are likely to pursue. It was clearly a product of her mental state.’

  ‘But you have my patient in custody,’ said Dr Minks.

  ‘She will be released today. I can assure you of that. However, she will be subject to further assessments of her psychological health.’

  Minks shook his head. ‘Kristina Dreyer is my patient and I say she is perfectly fit to be released into the community. Your criminal psychologist made a request for my assessment, too. I sent it off to her this morning. By the way, I was surprised to hear that your criminal psychologist was Frau Dr Eckhardt.’

  ‘You know Susanne?’ Fabel asked, surprised.

  ‘Obviously not as well as you do, Chief Commissar.’

  ‘Dr Eckhardt and I are…’ Fabel struggled for the right words. He was annoyed to feel a flush of heat in his face. ‘… Involved with each other personally as well as professionally.’

  ‘I see. I knew Susanne Eckhardt in Munich. I was her lecturer. She was an uncommonly bright and insightful student. I’m sure she’s a great asset to the Polizei Hamburg.’

  ‘She is…’ said Fabel. He had mentioned to Susanne that he was going to meet Minks, and he puzzled for a moment over why she had not mentioned that she knew him.

  ‘Actually, she doesn’t work directly for the Polizei Hamburg. She’s based at the Institute for Legal Medicine here in Eppendorf… she is a special consultant to the Murder Commission.’

  There was a pause, during which Minks continued to study Fabel as if he himself were a patient needing assessment. Fabel broke the silence.

  ‘You were treating Kristina Dreyer for her phobias, is that correct?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, no. I was treating Frau Dreyer for a constellation of psychological problems. Her irrational fears were merely the manifestation, the symptoms of these conditions. A key element of her treatment was to develop strategies to help her lead a relatively normal life.’

  ‘You know the circumstances in which Kristina Dreyer was found – and about her claim that she felt compelled to clean up the murder scene. I have to ask you directly: do you think that Kristina Dreyer would have been capable of committing the murder of Hans-Joachim Hauser?’

  ‘No. I am not normally in the business of conjecture about where my patients’ mental states may lead them, but no. I can categorically state that, like you, I believe Kristina’s account and that she did not murder Hauser. Kristina is a frightened woman. That’s why I’m treating her here at my Fear Clinic. When she killed before, it was because her fear became amplified to an extent that you or I cannot fully comprehend. It gave her a strength beyond anything one would expect from a woman of her stature. She responded to a direct and immediate threat to her life after a period of sustained abuse. But, there again, you know this already, don’t you, Herr Fabel?’

  ‘Thank you for your opinion, Herr Doctor…’ Fabel rose to go and waited for Minks to uncrumple himself from his chair. Instead the psychologist remained seated and held Fabel in his soft but steady gaze. There was nothing to read in Minks’s expression, but Fabel sensed that he was weighing up his next words carefully. Fabel sat down again.

  ‘I knew Hans-Joachim Hauser, you know,’ Minks continued. ‘Your murder victim.’


  ‘Oh,’ Fabel said, surprised. ‘You were friends?’

  ‘No… God, no. It would perhaps be more correct to say that I used to know him. Years ago. I’ve met him a couple of times since, but we didn’t really have much to say to each other. I never really cared for the man.’ Minks paused. ‘As you know, I treat the causes and effects of fear here. Phobias and the conditions that cause them. One of the main things I teach my patients is that they must never let their phobias shape their personalities. They must not allow their fears to define who they are. But, of course, that is not true. It is our fears that define us. As we grow up we learn to fear rejection, failure, isolation or even love and success. I’ve become an expert in analysing people’s backgrounds from the fears they manifest. You, for example, Herr Fabel… I would guess that you come from a typical provincial North German background and you’ve lived in the North all your life. You have the typical North German approach: you stand back from things, think them over thoroughly before you speak or act. Then you need the reassurance of having your observations or actions confirmed by someone else. You fear the false step. The error. And the consequences of that false step. That is why you needed the comfort of me confirming your view of Frau Dreyer.’

  ‘I don’t need you to approve my theories, Herr Doctor.’ Fabel failed to keep the edge out of his voice. ‘All I need are your views on your patient. And, actually, you’re wrong. I haven’t lived in North Germany all my life. My mother is Scottish and I lived in the UK for a while as a child.’

  ‘Then the mind-set must be similar.’ Minks shrugged somewhere in the crumpled fabric of his jacket. ‘Anyway, we all have fears and those fears tend to shape how we react to the world.’

  ‘What’s this got to do with Herr Hauser?’

  ‘One of the most common fears we all have is that of exposure. We all have sides to our personalities that we dread being revealed to the world. Some people fear, for example, their past. The different person they used to be.’

  ‘Are you saying that Hauser was such a person?’

  ‘It is probably hard for you to believe, Herr Fabel, but I was once something of a radical. I was a student in 1968 and was very much part of all that went on at that time. But I am happy with everything I did and who I was back then. We all did things then that were perhaps… ill-advised… but it had a lot to do with the ardour of youth and the excitement of the time. But what’s most important is that we changed things. Germany is a different country because of our generation and I’m proud of the part I played. Others, however, are perhaps not so proud of their actions. It was back in sixty-eight that I first encountered Hauser. He was a pompous, self-important and incredibly vain youth. He was particularly fond of holding court and passing off all kinds of borrowed ideas and bons mots as his own.’

  ‘I don’t see how that is relevant. Why does that give a man reason to fear his own past?’

  ‘It does seem harmless, doesn’t it? Stealing the thoughts of others…’ Minks was now so sunken into the chair that it was as if he had studied the art of repose all his life, but some distant brilliance burned behind the soft eyes that remained focused on Fabel. ‘But the point is whose thoughts did he borrow… whose clothes did he take as his own? The thing about an exciting and dangerous time is that the excitement can make one blind to the danger. One is seldom aware that among the people one knows at such times are those who are themselves dangerous.’

  ‘Dr Minks, do you have something specific to tell me about Herr Hauser’s past?’

  ‘Specific? No. There’s nothing specific I can point to… but I can indicate the direction. My advice to you is that I think you should engage in a little archaeology, Herr Chief Commissar. Do some digging in the past. I’m not sure what you’ll find… but I’m sure you’ll find something.’

  Fabel regarded the small man in the armchair, with his wrinkled suit and wrinkled face. No matter how hard he tried, Fabel could not imagine Minks as a revolutionary. He thought about pushing the psychologist further, but it would be a useless effort. Minks had given as much away as he ever would. Cryptic though he was, Minks had clearly been doing his best to give Fabel a lead.

  ‘Did you also know Dr Gunter Griebel?’ asked Fabel. ‘He was murdered in the same way as Hauser.’

  ‘No… I can’t say I did. I read about his death in the papers, but I didn’t know him.’

  ‘So you know of no connection between Hauser and Griebel?’

  Minks shook his head. ‘I believe Griebel and Hauser were contemporaries. Maybe your archaeology will reveal that they shared a past. Anyway, Herr Chief Commissar, you have my opinion about Kristina. She is quite incapable of the kind of murder that you’re investigating.’

  Fabel rose and waited for Minks to stand up. They shook hands and Fabel thanked the psychologist for his help.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ said Fabel as he reached the door, ‘I believe you know one of my officers. Maria Klee.’

  Minks gave a laugh and shook his head. ‘Now, Herr Fabel, I may have allowed you some latitude because I had Kristina Dreyer’s permission, but I’m not going to compromise patient confidentiality by confirming or denying knowledge of your colleague.’

  ‘I didn’t say she was a patient,’ said Fabel as he stepped through the door. ‘Just that I believed that you knew her. Goodbye, Herr Doctor.’

  11.10 a.m.: Altona Nord, Hamburg

  As the footsteps grew louder Maria drew back into the corner where a young woman had been beaten and strangled to death. Despite most of the disused factory’s windows being broken, the air in the corner hung still and warm and heavy around Maria. A woman appeared at the doorway and looked around anxiously before entering. Maria stepped out of the shadows and the woman spotted her, then, reassured, made her way across the factory with renewed confidence.

  ‘Is not possible for me to stay long…’ she said in greeting as she approached Maria. Her voice was thick with an Eastern European accent and she spoke with the grammar of someone who has learned German on the street. Maria guessed she was no more than twenty-three or twenty-four, but from a distance she had looked older. She was dressed in a cheap, brightly coloured dress that had been taken up so that the hem just covered the tops of her thighs and no more. Her legs were naked and her shoes were high-heeled sandals that fastened around the ankle. The dress was of a thin material that clung to her breasts and clearly outlined her nipples. It was held up by thin straps, and her neck and shoulders were exposed. The whole outfit was intended to convey some kind of brash, available sexiness. Instead its colour compared discordantly with the girl’s pale, bad skin and combined with her bony shoulders and thin arms to make her look sickly and somewhat pathetic.

  ‘I don’t need you to stay long, Nadja,’ answered Maria. ‘I just need a name.’

  Nadja looked past Maria towards the corner of the disused factory. The corner in which she had placed the flowers.

  ‘I told you before, I don’t know what her real name was.’

  ‘It’s not her name I’m after, Nadja,’ said Maria in an even tone. ‘I want to know who put her on the street.’

  ‘She didn’t have a pimp. Not a single one, anyway. She was new to the group.’

  ‘The group?’

  ‘We all work for the same people. But I’m not going to tell you who. As it is, they would kill me if they knew I was talking to you at all.’

  Maria took hold of Nadja’s hand and held it palm up. With her other hand she stuffed some fifty-Euro notes into it and closed Nadja’s fingers around the cash.

  ‘This is important to me.’ Maria held Nadja’s gaze with her pale blue-grey eyes. ‘ I ’m paying you for this information. Not the police.’

  Nadja opened her fist and looked at the crumpled notes. She pushed them back towards Maria. ‘Save your money. I didn’t agree to meet you to get money from you. Anyway, I can make more than this in a couple of hours tonight.’

  ‘But you won’t get to keep it, will you?’ Maria made no move to
take the money back. ‘How did you come to know Olga?’

  Nadja laughed emptily and shook her head. Every movement seemed electrified by fear. She paused to light a cigarette and Maria saw that her hands trembled. She tilted her head back and forced a jet of smoke into the thick, warm air. ‘You think that your money means anything? I used to think that money was answer to all evils. And I thought that Germany was where I could make money. And this is how I ended up. But I take your money. And I take it because I have to prove that every second I out of their sight I earning for them.’

  Nadja took three fifty-Euro notes and handed the rest back to Maria. ‘The girl you call Olga. She not Russian, she from Ukraine. She brought here by the same people who brought me.’

  Maria felt the thrill of a suspicion being confirmed. ‘People traffickers?’

  There was a noise from somewhere outside the building, near the main doors. Both women turned and watched the door for a moment before continuing their conversation.

  ‘You should know this,’ said Nadja. ‘Things have changed in Hamburg. Before there used to be only two types of whore: the girls that work the Kiez in St Pauli – you even get university students up there making extra cash – and the junkies who do it to get drugs. These girls very bottom of the business. Now you got something new. Us. The other girls, they call us the Farmers’ Market… we brought in from East like cattle and sold off. Most girls from Russia, Belarus or Ukraine. Many also from Albania and a few from Poland and Lithuania.’

  ‘Who runs the Farmers’ Market?’

  ‘If I tell you, you go looking for them. Then they work out who tell you about them and they kill me. But they torture me first. Then they kill my family. You no idea what these people like. When they bring girls in they start by raping them. Then they beat them and say that they kill our families back home if we not earn good for them.’

  ‘And this is what happened to you?’