…?’
Schuler shook his head determinedly. ‘I’ll tell you everything. Everything I know. Just make sure my name doesn’t get out.’
Fabel smiled. ‘That’s a good boy.’ He turned to Anna and Henk as he made his way to the door. ‘I’ll leave this to you…’
Fabel poured himself a coffee when he got back to his office. He sat down at his desk, hung his jacket over the back of his chair and checked his watch. It was now nine-thirty. Sometimes Fabel felt that there was no refuge from his work: that it had the ability to reach out to him no matter where he was or what time of day it was. Fabel was annoyed with himself that he had discussed the case with Susanne during their time off together, even if it had only been about Griebel’s work. He even regretted taking home the files that Ullrich had given him. But something nagged relentlessly at Fabel about the second victim and he could not put his finger on it. It was like not being able to locate a tiny stone in your shoe, yet feeling it with every step.
Fabel reached into his desk and took out a large sketch pad from the drawer. He flipped it open at the page on which he had begun to map out the Hamburger Hairdresser case. It was a process that Fabel had repeated so many times before, with so many cases: a perversion of the creative function for which the sketch pads were intended. Fabel mapped out the profiles of sick and twisted minds, of death and pain. He thought back to what he had said to Schuler: all bluff, of course, but it bothered Fabel how true it was when he said that he was a hunter of men; someone who found it increasingly easy to enter the mindset of the men he hunted.
Again Fabel found himself wondering how it had come to pass that he had ended up here, up to his elbows in the blood and filth of others. This life had crept up on him. There had been definite, discreet steps along the way. The first had been the murder of Hanna Dorn, his girlfriend at university. He had not really known her that long or that well, but she had been a significant figure in his landscape. And she had been taken from it, suddenly and violently, by a killer who had chosen her as a victim, completely at random. Fabel had been as much confused as grief-stricken, and as soon as he had graduated he had joined the Polizei Hamburg. Then there had been the Commerzbank shoot-out. Fabel – the pacifist Fabel who had for his national service elected for Civilian Duty, driving ambulances in his native Norden rather than opting for a shorter conscription period in the armed forces – had been forced to do that which he had always promised himself he would never do. He had taken a human life. Then, during his time at the Murder Commission, each new case had chipped away at him, reshaping him into someone he had never thought he would become.
Sometimes Fabel felt that he was wearing someone else’s life, as if he had picked up the wrong coat from a restaurant cloakroom. This was not what he had planned for himself at all.
He gazed down at the sketch pad, not seeing it for the moment but trying to look into another life. Not, this time, into the mind of a killer or into the life of a murder victim, but into a life that should, that could, have been his. Maybe that was what Fabel had become: a victim of murder himself.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. He took out the slip of paper with her telephone number on it that Sonja Brun had given him, and Roland Bartz’s card, and laid them on the desk. A new life. He could pick up the phone, make two phone calls and change everything. What would it be like, he wondered, to have small worries? Not to have to make life-or-death decisions? He looked at the phone on his desk for a moment, imagining it as a portal to a new life. Then he sighed and put the scrap of paper and the business card back into his wallet before turning his attention again to the sketch pad.
Two victims in a single day. No solid leads and little to connect them. One a flagrant attention-seeker, the other practically a recluse. The only common theme that Fabel could discern, other than the suggestion of political radicalism in their youth, was the way they seemed to exist only in reflection. Hauser had sought to establish himself as an environmental guru and significant figure on the Left, only to become a footnote in the biographies of others. Griebel had seemed to exist only through and for his work, even when his wife had been alive.
Earlier, Fabel had written Kristina Dreyer’s name on the page, looped it with a highlighter pen and linked it to Hauser’s. He crossed it out. He had also linked Sebastian Lang’s name to Hauser’s. Fabel had not interviewed Lang personally, but Anna had assured him that Lang’s alibi was solid. A question mark indicated the older man who Anna had said had been seen with Hauser in The Firehouse. Could that have been Griebel? There were so few clear pictures of the camera-shy scientist in life, and the mortuary photograph of him with the top of his head sliced off did not help with identification. Fabel made a note to have Anna take an artist’s impression of Griebel down to The Firehouse to see if any of the staff recognised him.
There was a knock on the door and Anna Wolff walked in, as usual without being invited. Henk Hermann followed her.
‘Thanks for softening up Schuler,’ said Anna, in a tone that left Fabel unsure of whether she meant it or not, as she sat down opposite him. ‘It was difficult to get him to shut up, he’s so scared of the bogeyman you threatened to unleash on him.’
‘Anything useful?’ asked Fabel.
‘Yes, Chef,’ said Henk. ‘Schuler admitted he was cruising the area on foot, checking out likely apartments and houses. According to him it was only a half-hearted reconnaissance… apparently he does his best work in the wee small hours when the occupiers are asleep, but the Schanzenviertel is a clubby and pubby type of area so he thought he might find a few empty flats at that time of evening. Anyway, he hadn’t had any luck and had nearly been caught once by a householder, so he had decided to call it a night. It was on his way home that he noticed the bike chained up outside Hauser’s apartment and he thought “Why not?” The interesting thing is he said he wanted to check the apartment out, just in case, so he went around to the back where there’s a small courtyard with access to the lounge, bedroom and bathroom windows. He says he didn’t take it any further because he could see that the occupier was at home.’
‘He saw Hauser?’
‘Yep,’ said Anna. ‘Alive. He was sitting in the lounge drinking, so Schuler decided to settle for the bike.’
‘But the main thing is that Hauser was not alone,’ said Henk. ‘He had a guest.’
‘Oh?’ Fabel leaned forward. ‘Do we have a description?’
‘Schuler says that Hauser’s guest was sitting with his back to the window,’ said Anna. ‘Schuler was keen to get out of the courtyard in case he was spotted, so he didn’t pay much attention to either of the men. But, from what he said, one of them was definitely Hauser. Schuler described the other man as younger, maybe early thirties, dark hair and slim.’
‘Doesn’t that description fit with the guy who discovered Kristina Dreyer cleaning up after the murder?’ said Fabel.
‘Sebastian Lang… It does, doesn’t it?’ Anna grinned. ‘I have a photograph of Lang that I’ve been using when I’ve been asking around about Hauser.’
‘Lang gave you a photograph voluntarily?’ asked Fabel.
‘Not exactly.’ Anna exchanged a look with Henk. ‘I borrowed it from the crime scene. Technically, it was the property of the deceased. Not Lang’s.’