But Fabel needed Kroeger on this case. There was no denying that if they stood a chance of catching the Network Killer, then Kroeger’s expertise was the most important tool they had. It was, as Kroeger had said himself, his beat.
‘Unfortunately my team is unusually stretched at the moment,’ continued Kroeger. ‘We’ve been given the responsibility of tracking down the source of this Klabautermann Virus that’s been wrecking e-comms within the state government. But, like I said, this case will naturally take priority.’
‘I appreciate that.’
Fabel spent the rest of the briefing with the usual mechanics of a major investigation. Each team of two detectives gave a report on their corner of the investigation, followed by a group discussion and the allocation by Fabel of further investigative tasks.
‘That guy Kroeger gives me the creeps…’ Werner came up to Fabel after the others had gone. ‘I’m sure I saw him in that science fiction film — you know, The Matrix.’
‘He’s good at his job,’ said Fabel. ‘One of the best in Europe, I’ve been told. That’s all that counts. And god knows we need him on this one.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t The Matrix I saw him in. I used to watch a lot of Westerns when I was a kid,’ said Werner. ‘You know… when the cavalry are in hostile Red Indian territory but they have to rely on a native tracker from the same tribe to get them through. Why do I get the feeling Kroeger is as likely to take scalps as the bad guys?’
‘He’s an odd one, that’s all, Werner. As far as I can remember I’ve never seen Kroeger wear feathers in his hair.’
‘Suppose not.’ Werner rasped a shovel of hand across his stubble-cut scalp. ‘But I have to admit to being out of my depth with all of this electronic stuff, Jan. I have never been able to understand these social networking sites. Why do people need to use computers to connect with each other, piling all of their personal stuff out there on the internet? Yet if you sit next to one of them on the S-Bahn, you can’t have a conversation with them because they’re plugged into their mp3 players.’
‘That’s the technological society for you,’ said Fabel. ‘All technology and no society.’
Most of the officers working in the Presidium took lunch in its huge canteen. Fabel frequently used it himself but often preferred to take three-quarters of an hour in the middle of the day to get out of the Commission. Thinking time, he liked to call it. He was just about to leave the building when a bleep from his cellphone alerted him that he had received a text message.
Arrived safely Wiesbaden. Weather crap. Hotel soulless. Phone tonight. Sx
He sighed. Fabel could never understand why Susanne sent him texts: she knew he wouldn’t reply to them. It took him too long to fiddle around with the phone keys and even then it was all wrong or he would accidentally delete the two-sentence reply it had taken him fifteen minutes to compose. Why didn’t people simply talk to each other any more? The thought hit him and he remembered Werner saying pretty much the same. Fabel resigned himself to Old Farthood.
One of the places Fabel favoured for lunch was a cafe on one of the dozens of canals that criss-crossed the city. This particular cafe was on the Alsterstreek canal, next to the Winterhuder Fahrhaus, where tourists and locals would catch the red and white water buses that criss-crossed the Alster. Sitting below the city that surrounded it and tucked in tight to the bridge, the cafe gave Fabel an odd sense of safety. Its location made it handy for the Presidium and if the weather was half decent he could sit out at one of the tables by the railings that ran along the side of the Alsterstreek and watch the swans patrol the waterway. Being beside the water, too, comforted Fabel, calmed him; which was strange, because, as a boy growing up in Norddeich, Fabel had been just a little afraid of the water; specifically of the sea. He had always put it down to the fear of flooding that was instinctive in East Frisians and their neighbours, the Dutch. Fabel’s boyhood home had been behind a dyke and there had been nights in his childhood — not many, but a few — when he would lie awake thinking about the dark mass of sea held back by a simple man-made earthwork.
A waiter came over to wipe down the table before taking Fabel’s order. He greeted him with a smile and asked him how he was. It was a ritual of recognition: Fabel was a known face here, but he knew that none of the staff would have any idea what it was that he did for a living, and that somehow added to his sense of comfort. It was something he had often wondered about: what people assumed about him, not knowing that his daily business was all about violence and death. Did he look like an academic, which is what he would prefer them to think, or did they take him for some kind of businessman? The latter thought depressed him.
Fabel had given a lot of thought to how people perceived him, and how they perceived each other; mainly because it was something that came up so frequently when interviewing the family and friends of murderers. Not, of course, in the majority of homicides where the murder was committed by people known to the police and to their victims as habitually violent and potentially dangerous. Most of the murders Fabel dealt with occurred within a certain milieu and were fuelled by drink or drugs; but there were cases — particularly with sex killings — where everyone stood open-mouthed on discovering that the murderer was someone they knew. The I-would-never-have-guessed killers. The bloated body washed up at the Fischmarkt, head and limbs removed, could well turn out to be the victim of just such a killer.
Over the years Fabel had become accustomed to the shock and disbelief of others: how, in so many of these cases, people who knew the killer well had to adjust their perspective on everything; had to learn to view everyone with a new element of mistrust.
We all have a face we show to the world; and we all have a face that we only allow ourselves to see. It had been Uwe Hoffman, Fabel’s first boss at the Murder Commission, who had told him that. Maybe, thought Fabel, this Network Killer case wasn’t that different after all; maybe the internet was just a further extension of the way things had always been.
He ordered a salad and a mineral water and was watching the swans, thinking about nothing in particular, when his phone beeped again.
He read the text. It didn’t make much sense. It didn’t make any sense at all.
Chapter Nine
The house was on the boundary between the Schanzenviertel and St Pauli. It had its back to a railway line and had, at some distant point in its history, faced the world with some dignity. Now, however, that face was tattooed with a continuous, swirling band of graffiti, two metres high, and the ground-floor windows the graffiti half-framed were dark with soot and grime.
The young man who hesitated on the other side of the road, near the corner, carefully checking the street in both directions, was Niels Freese. He was checking for any hint of a police presence, uniformed or otherwise, before crossing over and knocking on the heavy door of the squat. The grimy glass of the window shadowed darker for a moment as someone inside checked out the approaching figure. They would, he knew, recognise him by his limp.
The door opened on his first knock and he slipped inside, into the dark cavern of the house. He instantly recognised the man who admitted him, a tall gangly male who was a little older than Niels, maybe thirty, and who had the kind of tough look that attracted police attention. But he did not know the man’s name. Then he realised that he had never met the man before, nor seen him. The thought flashed through Niels’s mind that the man at the door was actually also Niels, but in disguise, but he dismissed the thought by applying, as he had been taught to do by the doctors at Hamburg-Eilbek, reason and logic to an unreasonable and illogical perception. No, the man at the door was real and he was not another version of Niels. And the house was real, and not an exact replica in a carbon-copy of Hamburg created to beguile him.