‘To kill time. To see the city, maybe.’
‘Or to meet someone we don’t know about.’
‘It’s possible. Or he may have simply been looking for somewhere to get lunch. He was very regular in his eating habits.’
‘So let’s say he goes for lunch. Places to eat within walking distance from here…’ Fabel thought it over, then shook his head. ‘Central Hamburg… could be any of a hundred places. If there were only some way of narrowing it down.’
‘Is it that important to know where he ate?’
‘I think it might be. We’ve established that he was probably followed from the airport. He’s tried to speak to me but failed. My guess is that whoever was after him wanted him shut up before he could contact me. Whatever he was putting together, as soon as he started to frame it up and discuss it with others then too many people know about it for them to control it. They follow him here and tail him to where he was eating. It’s there that they make contact. Somehow they get someone to gain his trust. A woman. Maybe our so-called “Valkyrie”.’
‘But surely if he’s investigating a female professional killer…’
‘Remember he doesn’t know that they know about him. Some attractive woman bumps into him and starts a conversation and he doesn’t suspect a thing.’
‘Jens wasn’t really the chatty type.’ Vestergaard gave a bitter laugh. ‘Particularly in Germany.’
‘But remember we’re talking about real experts. Prepared, briefed. There will have been something to hook him. And perhaps she appeared to be non-German. Danish, even. Just to get him off his guard.’
‘But we don’t know where he went for lunch.’
Fabel looked as if he had just got a small static shock. ‘The toy!’
‘What toy?’
‘We found a toy, one of these Hamburg souvenir teddy bears. It was in his hotel room with the rest of his stuff.’ Fabel shook his head impatiently. ‘Hold on a minute.’ He hit the button on his car phone and again got through to the Murder Commission. He asked to speak to Anna Wolff.
‘Anna, I’m going to ask you to do something and it’s going to sound trivial. Believe me, it’s not. Do you remember that teddy bear found at the Jespersen scene? It should be in the evidence locker.’
‘It should,’ said Anna, ‘but it’s not. It’s on my desk. I’ve named him Captain Cutie.’
‘For God’s sake, Anna, that’s evidence. You can’t just…’ Fabel drew a breath. ‘Forget it. Just read the manufacturer’s label and get in touch with them. I want to know who they distribute to in Hamburg. Make it within a three-kilometre radius of Jespersen’s hotel. Like I say, Anna, this is urgent. And important.’
‘I think I can manage it,’ said Anna flatly.
Fabel hung up and turned to Vestergaard. ‘If we locate the outlet, then they might have security cameras. Or they might be in a mall with CCTV. And that means we may be able to get a look at Jespersen’s killer.’
3
Sylvie Achtenhagen decided not to drive to Berlin. Instead, she caught the S-Bahn from Altona into Hamburg’s main railway station and then took advantage of the gleaming new high-speed train that connected Germany’s two biggest cities.
It took just over an hour and a half to get to Berlin. The weather had stayed bright and cold and Sylvie watched the flat North German landscape slide by, occasionally going through the notes she had made.
Much like the train she had just travelled on, Berlin’s Main Railway Station was a statement: a promise about the future. Only two years old, the station was now a major Berlin landmark: a weaving of metal and glass on a monumental scale. It said very clearly to the world that this was, after all, the very heart of a new Europe. Sylvie made her way through the main concourse and out to the taxi stand.
‘Where to, love?’ asked the driver in a thick Berlin accent.
‘The Birthler Office.’
‘Off to see your file, are you, love?’
The Birthler Office, or BStU, was shorthand for the headquarters of an organisation whose name needed to be abbreviated: the Federal Commission for Preserving the Records of the Ministry for State Security of the German Democratic Republic. Its abbreviated form took its name from the serving Federal Commissioner, Marianne Birthler.
It took only fifteen minutes to get to the Birthler Office and after waiting a further ten Sylvie was greeted by a gaunt-looking man in his early fifties who introduced himself as Max Wengert. Wengert explained that he worked for the department that dealt with media requests for access to files. Sylvie, as a familiar face from television, was used to people reacting differently towards her than perhaps they would normally. There was something about Wengert’s broad smile as he greeted her that suggested smiling was not something he did often. In that greeting, she recognised someone she could probably manipulate to divulge more information than he should.
‘It’s so kind of you to take the time to help me with this, Herr Wengert.’ Sylvie smiled sweetly as he guided her into an interview room. ‘Personally, as it were.’
‘I have to admit to being something of a fan of yours.’ He smiled again and exposed tobacco-stained teeth. Sylvie imagined him sitting alone in some tiny Berlin flat watching her on TV. She embellished the image a little too much and felt a shudder of revulsion. But she hid it well.
‘Were you able to find out anything about the name I gave you… Georg Drescher?’ she asked.
Wengert pulled the chair out from the table in the interview room, inviting Sylvie to sit. His long grey face took on a conspiratorial expression.
‘Actually, Frau Achtenhagen, it’s quite a coincidence — you are the second person to enquire about that name this week.’
‘Really? Who was the other enquiry from? Was it another broadcaster, or a newspaper?’
‘Neither.’ Wengert looked unsure for a moment. ‘Well, I suppose it does no harm to tell you. No, it wasn’t actually a media enquiry. It came from the police. The Polizei Hamburg.’
‘I see…’ said Sylvie. ‘Did they say why they were interested in Drescher?’
‘No, they didn’t. I couldn’t help them. And I’m afraid I can’t help you. We do know from other files referring to him that he did exist, but Major Georg Drescher does not have a personal file that we can trace. Nor can we find any other file of a significant nature with reference to him or his activities. All the mentions we have of him are in minor files where he is, sometimes literally, merely a footnote.’
‘Isn’t that — well — odd?’
‘Far from it, Frau Achtenhagen. The Stasi had masses of files, millions. Every report from an unofficial collaborator was written up, indexed and filed. Take the personal files on individuals: there are six million of them. Out of a total population of, what? Sixteen million? That means there’s a lot of inconsequential stuff in there. But the important stuff — the big secrets — a lot of that was shredded or removed. Towards the end of eighty-nine, beginning of ninety, the Stasi saw the writing on the Wall, if you’ll pardon the pun — added to which there were thousands of civil-rights protesters outside waiting to get in to tear the place apart and get their hands on the files, which they did on the fifteenth of January. I would imagine it must have been mayhem in Stasi Headquarters in the days and hours before the protesters got in. When they did they stopped the destruction of the files, but a lot of the more incriminating material had already been shredded. We recovered nearly seventeen thousand sacks containing nearly fifty million shredded pages. And we’re still trying to put them together. But that’s not the whole story. In amongst those civil-rights protesters who broke in were members of the American CIA, who helped themselves to some of the most sensitive information. They wanted to get their hands on lists of agents working in the West. And I would also guess that in amongst the protesters there were more than a few Stasi agents and informers trying to get to their files before anyone else.’