‘And you think that’s what happened to Drescher’s files?’ asked Sylvie. ‘That he’s managed to wipe his existence from the records?’
‘Maybe, but not necessarily. We are still trying to put the shredded and hand-torn files back together. It was only last year that we developed a computer-software system that can reassemble the pages digitally and speed the whole process up. Even with that, it’s going to take us until 2013. But you can be very sure that there will be some nasty surprises along the way — a lot of former Stasi agents and informers won’t be sleeping too easily in their beds, I’ll tell you that. Maybe Drescher’s files are somewhere in there, waiting to be put together.’
‘If they’re here at all.’ Sylvie let out a long breath in disappointment
‘There is something else…’ Wengert leaned forward, lowering his voice. ‘You know that the BStU is going to be absorbed into the State Records Office? It’s because of the Hans Hugo Klein investigation. It showed the level to which the BStU has been infiltrated by ex-Stasi — people who could be working inside here to hide or destroy the files we’re supposed to be protecting and reconstructing.’
‘So maybe Drescher has a friend in here?’
Wengert shrugged. ‘Who knows? Sorry I can’t be of more help.’
‘What about the other names I gave you?’
‘Well, unless it is related to your personal file, if you have one here, or unless it is demonstrably in the public interest, I’m not supposed to release that kind of information.’
‘Herr Wengert…’ Sylvie smiled at the official and watched him melt. Men were so easy to manipulate. ‘Would I be right in saying that you were one of the civil-rights activists who stormed the Lichtenberg Bastille?’
Wengert beamed with pride. ‘Yes. I was.’
‘Then you are clearly a man who stands up for what is right. Who cares about the truth. And you’ve said yourself, this place is probably lousy with ex-Stasi scum. How can we get to the truth if we play by the rules and they don’t? I promise you that the people on the list I sent you are not the ones I want to expose. I just want to talk to them, that’s all. But they may lead me to Drescher. And he is someone we should care about. I am not asking for you to compromise your ethics, Herr Wengert. I’m asking you to stand by them.’
Wengert stared at Sylvie, an inner struggle obviously going on behind his dull eyes. He stood up, decisively.
‘Wait here a moment, please,’ he said, and left the room.
4
Fabel had left Vestergaard at her hotel to freshen up. He had promised her that he would let her know as soon as they ascertained where Jespersen had eaten lunch or if they had uncovered any sightings of a tail from the airport. He felt he was making progress, but the idea that it could all be a wild-goose chase continued to haunt him.
He was on his way back into the office when Anna phoned.
‘I’ve had a call,’ she said, ‘from a bright-as-a-button, all-eager-as-hell Commissar based down at Commissariat Twelve in Klingberg. She’s keen to speak to you. I said you would ring her back, but seeing as you’re in the area…’
‘What’s it about?’
‘A suicide. It looks straightforward and he left a note. Took a dive and landed on his face. From what she said this guy really does have eyes in the back of his head-’
‘Anna…’ Fabel injected a warning tone into his voice.
‘Anyway, she’s got in touch because she thinks something’s a bit off about the whole thing. She admits her feeling is groundless but she wanted to talk to you about it.’
‘She asked for me particularly?’
‘I think she’s after my job. Her timing’s impeccable.’
Fabel let the jibe pass. ‘Is she on duty now?’
‘Yep. I thought I’d let you know because of this Valkyrie thing. You know, any death that there could be any doubt about.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Iris Schmale. I’m guessing all that schoolgirl exuberance will make her easy to recognise.’
Police Commissariat 12, Klingberg, was less well known than Davidwache but architecturally it was probably even more impressive. One of Hamburg’s most famous landmarks was the Chilehaus, in the city’s Kontorhaus Quarter. The Chilehaus, as almost every Hamburg tour guide would tell visitors, was designed to resemble the sharp-edged prow of a ship. The Klingberg police station had been built in 1906 into the flank of the Chilehaus complex. It was, in itself, a magnificent piece of brickwork.
Fabel suppressed a grin when Criminal Commissar Iris Schmale greeted him in the main office. She was exactly as Anna had imagined her: young, fresh-faced and bubbling with enthusiasm. She had rebellious, vibrant red hair tied back into a long ponytail and her pale complexion was clustered with freckles. It gave her a girlish look.
‘I believe you have a suicide that smells fishy,’ said Fabel.
‘I do, Herr Principal Chief Commissar. The dead man’s name was Peter Claasens. He owned and ran a shipping agency on the edge of the Kontorhaus Quarter. From what I can see he had everything going for him. Wife, kids, highly successful business.’
‘Lots of people with families and successful businesses commit suicide every day,’ said Fabel. ‘And I believe the deceased left a note.’
‘Exactly!’ said Schmale. Fabel failed to suppress a grin at her vehemence. ‘That’s exactly it. There’s something about the suicide note that’s…’ She frowned as she sought the right word. ‘Ambiguous.’
‘Do you have it here?’
She handed him a sheet of paper. ‘This is a photocopy. The note was found several metres from the body. No blood on it. The only fingerprints were those of the deceased.’
Fabel began reading the note out loud. ‘“Dear Marianne…”’ He raised an eyebrow at Schmale.
‘Wife.’
‘“Dear Marianne, I am sorry I have to do this, and I know that, right at this moment, you are angry with me, but I need you to understand that there is no other way forward for me to go. It is tough to leave you and the kids behind, but it is better for me to go. I have made sure you will all be provided for and I don’t want you to think ill of me for making the only decision I could make. This is my decision and I want you to know that no one else played a part in it. I’m sorry I won’t be around every day to see the kids grow up, but I just couldn’t go on the way things were. I know you understand. Goodbye… Peter.”’ Fabel handed the sheet back to Schmale. ‘Have you spoken to the wife?’
‘Of course. I know that bereaved families often find the idea of suicide difficult to accept, but Marianne Claasens just simply refuses to believe that he committed suicide. And she doesn’t strike me as a woman overwhelmed by the shock of it all. She’s not in denial — she really is certain that her husband did not kill himself. And that note
…’
‘What about it?’
‘Well, it could mean anything. I tried to imagine it out of context — that it hadn’t been found at the scene of a suicide. And to me it reads more like someone who’s leaving his wife, not killing himself: “ I want you to know that no one else played a part in it.” How could anyone else play a part in his suicide? That sounds to me like he was about to clear off with someone else and wanted to keep her name out of it.’
Fabel thought about what Schmale had said and as he did so she watched him urgently, like the accused waiting for the judge’s verdict.
‘That was good thinking,’ he said and smiled. ‘About viewing the note in a neutral context. But if this isn’t suicide, then it’s murder. And if, as you suspect, he was about to leave his wife, that makes her the prime suspect. Have you checked her out?’
‘Yes, Herr Principal Chief Commissar. She was nowhere near Claasens’s office. And she has a dozen witnesses to prove it. She was at some function at the St Georg Hospital. She’s a consultant there. Oncologist.’
‘And Claasens?’
‘As I said, he was a shipping agent. He had his own business arranging export/import traffic for major Hamburg-based concerns. He specialised in the Far East.’