‘Principal Chief Commissar Fabel here,’ he said to the operations room officer who answered his call. ‘I’m in Altona, on Palmaille heading west. I’ve just passed the fishing museum. Where’s your nearest traffic camera?’
‘There’s one at the junction with Max-Brauer-Allee.’
‘I’m in a dark blue BMW 3-series, old shape. There’s very little on the road but there’s a car behind me. When I turn north into Max-Brauer-Allee, could you get his index number and check it out?’
‘Yes, Chief Commissar. Do you need assistance? I could send an area car.’
‘It’s probably nothing, but if there’s one available, send it to the Max-Brauer-Allee. Call me back on this number when you have a make on the car.’
Fabel turned into Max-Brauer-Allee at the intersection. As he drove north he checked that his tail was still there. The white baroque edifice of Altona City Hall slid by on his left and as he passed the road end at Platz-der-Republik, he saw the silver and blue police cruiser waiting at the junction. His cellphone rang.
‘Chief Commissar Fabel, Presidium Ops Room here — we got the index plate. The car behind you is a Mercedes CLK cabriolet, registered to a Sylvie Achtenhagen, Edgar-Ross-Strasse, Altona. Isn’t that…?’
‘Yes, it is. Thanks. Tell the patrol car to pull her over.’
Fabel drew into the kerb once he had seen in his rear-view mirror that the Mercedes had been pulled over. He got out and approached Achtenhagen, who was out of her car and remonstrating with the two uniformed officers.
‘Thanks, I’ll take it from here,’ he said to the uniforms.
‘This looks like harassment,’ said Achtenhagen in halfhearted indignation. ‘Pulling over members of the press for no good reason. Other than, that is, the fact that I’m embarrassing you by pointing out your incompetence to the public.’
‘Are you quite finished?’ asked Fabel, with a sigh. ‘I want to know why you were following me.’
‘I wasn’t. I live in Altona.’
‘Cut the crap, Frau Achtenhagen. It’s nearly three-thirty in the morning and I have a home to go to. You trailed me in a complete circle. You’ve been on my tail since I left the murder scene.’
‘There’s been another murder?’ asked Achtenhagen. Her shock was about as genuine as her earlier indignation. Fabel folded his arms across his body, signalling his impatience for Achtenhagen to stop the pretence.
‘Okay…’ she sighed. ‘But I’ve got every right to drive where I want and follow who I want. You and your department have been less than helpful. I decided I would keep tabs on you. It sure as hell paid dividends tonight. Who was the victim?’
Fabel remained silent.
‘Listen, Herr Fabel. You and I haven’t got off to a good start.’
‘We haven’t got off to any kind of start. It’s not my job to deal with the media. I told you that. And, let’s face it, Frau Achtenhagen, satellite television isn’t exactly the home of in-depth quality news analysis. I’ve heard your theories about how broadcasters should make the news, not just report it. All you want is sensationalism. Gory details and a cartoon-character villain to scare the public with. I deal in the real world.’
‘We can be of help to each other,’ said Achtenhagen.
‘No, we can’t. Or at least you can’t help me. This isn’t one of your cheap Saturday-night dramas. Catching and convicting a murderer means using professional policing and forensic skills, plus modern technology, and collating legally obtained evidence. It’s not about some satellite-TV Nancy Drew putting it all together for us.’
‘That’s not what I’m talking about!’ Achtenhagen’s voice was raised now. ‘Whatever you think of what I do, there are things I can find out that you can’t, people I can talk to who would run a mile rather than speak to a cop. I know all about Carstens Kaminski, man-of-the-people boss of Davidwache. You think he has his finger on the Reeperbahn pulse. He doesn’t know the half of what’s going on. He’s still a cop. People don’t like cops. People like the television. They like me. They talk to me.’
‘As I told you-’
‘Listen.’ Achtenhagen cut him off. ‘I’m not saying that I can deliver the killer. I’m not even saying that I can offer hard evidence. But there’s a chance, a real chance, that I can point you in the right direction.’
‘That’s very public-spirited of you.’ Fabel made no attempt to suppress his sneer. ‘You’ll come to us before you spout your theories on HanSat, I suppose.’
‘As a matter of fact I will. On one condition.’
‘And that is?’
‘If I deliver something which leads you to the killer, then you give me an exclusive on the arrest. Five… no, ten hours before you release the details to the rest of the press.’
‘Even if I were remotely interested in such an offer, I’m not in a position to agree to it. Our press department has got really good relationships with the local media. It wouldn’t have for long if we cut them out of breaking news.’
‘Your press people would get over it. And you’d have your killer.’ Achtenhagen tugged at the collar of her coat. ‘Listen, it’s freezing here. My apartment isn’t far. Why don’t I make you a coffee and we can talk about it in comfort?’
‘I’m going home, Frau Achtenhagen,’ said Fabel, his voice suddenly cold and hard.
‘Well, at least think about what I’ve said.’
‘Goodnight, Frau Achtenhagen.’
Fabel got into his car. He watched Achtenhagen in his rear-view mirror until she had driven off. He sat for a moment, his mind going over his exchange with the television journalist, before he put the BMW in gear and headed towards Othmarschen.
7
Fabel parked outside the Psychiatric Centre of the University Clinic Hamburg-Eppendorf and, with a nod to the security man on the desk, headed up the stairs to the first floor. He knocked on the door displaying the nameplate: ‘Dr Eckhardt: Forensic Psychology’.
‘Hello, stranger…’ The woman behind the desk was in her late thirties with dense, dark hair gathered up in a French plait. She spoke in a soft Bavarian accent. Fabel smiled.
‘Hi… I hope I didn’t wake you when I came in last night.’
‘You know me,’ said Susanne. ‘When I’m out, I’m out. When did you get in?’
‘About four. I had a lie-in this morning, though.’ He yawned loudly.
‘It didn’t do you much good. You won’t be working late tonight, will you?’
‘Not if I can help it,’ said Fabel. ‘Anyway, I can’t stop. You were on my way. I called in to give you this…’ He dropped a heavy buff file on Susanne’s desk. ‘I couldn’t email it all.’
‘This to do with the Angel case?’
‘The Angel Copycat case, if my instincts are right. Could you have a look through it? I’ll raise the appropriate paperwork to cover your time.’
Fabel made for the door, but checked himself, frowning. ‘Do you want to know something strange? About last night, I mean.’
‘What?’
‘Sylvie Achtenhagen — you know, the TV presenter and reporter, the one on HanSat — well, she was following me. I had a silver-and-blue pull her over. She started to offer me help on this case. Nonsense, I know, but the strange thing is…’ He stopped mid-sentence, laughed and shook his head. ‘No, I must have been too tired.’
‘No, go on.’
‘Well, she was really trying to persuade me to help her get the scoop on the Angel case. I could have sworn she was offering to have sex with me…’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘No — she said I should come to her place so we could discuss it in comfort.’
‘She must be really desperate for a story.’ Susanne arched an eyebrow.
‘Thanks for that. But yes, I rather think she is. God knows she did more harm than good with the original Angel case. It’s almost as if she has to find out who the killer is.’
Susanne leaned back in her chair, rattling a pencil between perfect porcelain-white teeth. ‘As I remember, Sylvie Achtenhagen is a rather attractive woman.’