Scheibe felt something chill grip him: what if Franz had not died here? They had loved Franz, they had followed him; but more than anything, they had feared him. What if his death had been a sham, a conspiracy, some kind of deal with the authorities? What if, somehow, he had survived?
It didn’t make sense, but these killings had to have something to do with what had happened here, on this provincial railway platform, twenty years before. Scheibe already regretted having left that message for Cornelius. He was not going to make it easier for the killer, and he was not going to risk his career by renewing associations that were best forgotten. He had worked too hard for all that he had achieved since the last time they had met; he was not going to give any of it up.
Scheibe looked at his watch: it was nearly eight. He felt tired and unclean. He hadn’t eaten since the lunch in the Rathaus and he felt empty inside. Scheibe sat on a bench on the platform and gazed blankly out across the tracks, across the flat landscape beyond, across the Weser towards the Luneplatte on the far side.
He could think this through. That was what they had always relied on him for back then: his ability to plan a strategy in the same way he could plan a building. More than a structure, but every detail integrated. He had been the architect of what had happened here: he had freed himself and the others. Now he needed to do it again. Scheibe reached into the pocket of his crumpled black linen jacket and pulled out his cellphone. No, his number could be traced: he had, after all, only recently been lectured about the insecurity of using a mobile telephone. Scheibe knew he had to play this carefully. He would phone the police. Anonymously. He would do a deal that kept him out of it. Like the last time.
A payphone. He needed to find a payphone. Paul turned and scanned the landscape around him.
It was then that the young man with the dark hair stepped out onto the platform. There was no vague sense of recognition. Paul did not struggle with where or when or how he had seen the face before. Maybe because he was seeing it in this context.
The young man strode across to Paul purposefully.
‘I know who you are,’ said Paul. ‘I know exactly who you are.’
The young man smiled and took his hand briefly out of his jacket pocket to reveal the Makarov automatic.
‘Let’s go somewhere more private to talk. My car is parked outside,’ he said, indicating the platform’s exit with a nod of his head.
8.00 p.m.: St Pauli, Hamburg
‘Just let me know if I’m cramping your style.’ Anna Wolff grinned at Henk Hermann as they approached the bar.
The Firehouse was a large, square-set building in the St Pauli Kiez. Externally it was one of those unremarkable 1950s brick-built buildings that had erupted across Hamburg like weeds on the gap sites created by Second World War bombs. Internally, it was just as unremarkable, but in a totally different way. The decor was the kind of variation on the same theme of generic designer cool that could be found in bars and clubs around the world: an unsurprising, uninspiring, vaguely retro sophistication. Even the music in the background was the predictable chill-out soundtrack. The Firehouse left Anna, who preferred clubs and bars that had more of an edge, totally cold. But there again, it was not aimed at Anna. Or anyone of her gender.
‘Very funny.’ Henk muttered and nodded towards the shaven-headed black barman who came over to their end of the bar.
‘What can I get you?’ The black barman spoke German that was spun through with something between an African and an English accent.
In reply, Henk held up his oval Criminal Police shield. ‘We’d like to ask you about one of your customers.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s in connection with a murder inquiry,’ said Anna. ‘We believe the victim was a regular here.’ She laid a photograph of Hauser on the bar. ‘Know him?’
The barman looked briefly at the photograph and nodded.
‘That is Herr Hauser. Yes, I know him. Or knew him. I read about his death in the newspapers. Terrible. Yes, he was a regular here.’
‘With anyone in particular?’
‘No one special that I know of. Lots of guys in general…’
The other two barkeepers were occupied and a customer called over to the black barman from the other side of the bar.
‘Excuse me a moment…’ While he went over to serve the customer, Anna surveyed the club. Considering it was so early in the evening, and so early in the working week, there was a substantial number of customers. As she expected, it was populated by an exclusively male clientele, but other than that there was nothing to distinguish it from any other bar or club. Some of the men had the business-suited look of having come straight from their offices. Anna found it difficult to imagine Hauser in the club: it all seemed too ‘corporate’, too mainstream. The black barman came back and apologised for the interruption.
‘Herr Hauser came in here a lot, but he tended to hang around with younger guys. Much younger guys. I just asked the other barmen about him. Martin says he used to come in a lot with a guy with dark hair.’
‘Sebastian Lang?’ Anna placed a photograph of Lang on the counter next to the one of Hauser.
‘I wouldn’t know him… Martin?’ The barman called over to his colleague who came over and examined the photograph.
‘That’s him,’ the second barman confirmed. ‘They came in here together for a while, but then the younger guy stopped coming. But before him, Herr Hauser used to drink with a man more his own age. I don’t think they were an item, or anything. I just think they were friends.’
‘Do you have a name for this friend?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Does he still come in here?’
The barman shook his head. ‘I couldn’t say when he might turn up. I think he only came in to meet Herr Hauser.’
‘Thanks,’ said Henk and handed the barman his Polizei Hamburg contact card. ‘If you do see him again, you can contact me on this number.’
The barman took the card. ‘Sure.’ He frowned. ‘You don’t think this guy had anything to do with Herr Hauser’s murder, do you?’
‘At the moment we’re just trying to build a picture of the victim’s last days,’ said Anna. ‘And the kind of people he used to hang out with. That’s all.’
But, as she and Henk left The Firehouse, Anna could not help thinking that they had built no picture at all.
9.
Twelve Days After the First Murder: Tuesday, 30 August 2005.
10.30 a.m.: Police Presidium, Hamburg
Fabel phoned Markus Ullrich, the BKA officer, from his office in the Murder Commission. Ullrich sounded surprised to hear from Fabel, but there was no sense of the BKA man being guarded in his response.
‘What can I do for you, Chief Commissar? Is this about Frau Klee?’
‘No, Herr Ullrich, it isn’t.’ The truth was that Fabel did want to pursue the issue with Ullrich, but now was not the time. Fabel was looking for a favour. ‘You will remember that Criminal Director van Heiden asked about the case I’m working on? The so-called “Hamburg Hairdresser”?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Someone has suggested that I should be looking more closely into the history of the victims. Specifically that there may be some skeletons in the closet dating back to their days as student activists – or later, during the years of unrest. Both were politically active to varying degrees. And I thought that if there were any suspicions about them…’
‘… That we at the BKA would have them on file – is that it?’
‘It’s just a thought…’ Fabel went on to outline what they knew to date about both victims.
‘Okay,’ said Ullrich. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
After Fabel hung up he went through to the main Murder Commission office and spoke to Anna Wolff. He gave her the details from the Second World War identity card of the HafenCity mummy.