Several of the other journalists took over from where Tiedemann had led them. But without the information that he clearly had, their questions were shots in the dark. The small newspaperman stood silent, allowing the others to harass the senior officers for a while; then he delivered his coup de grace.
‘Criminal Director van Heiden…’ He could not be heard above the others. ‘Criminal Director van Heiden…’ He repeated the name more loudly, and his peers fell silent, ready to follow his lead again. ‘Is it true that the bomb under Chief Commissar Fabel’s car was placed there by the Hamburg Hairdresser – the serial killer who is currently murdering former members of the radical movements of the nineteen seventies and nineteen eighties? And is it also true that, as a result of this attempt on Herr Fabel’s life, he has withdrawn from the case?’
Van Heiden’s expression darkened and he glowered at Tiedemann. ‘The Murder Commission officer in question is withdrawing from all his current case-load and handing it over to other officers. The sole reason for this is that he is taking a leave of absence to recover from his experience. There is nothing more to it than that. I assure you that Polizei Hamburg officers cannot be so easily frightened off a case…’
The small reporter said nothing more. But he smiled and allowed the clamour of his colleagues to wash over him. Van Heiden and Police President Steinbach turned their backs on them and made their way back up the steps and into the Presidium while the Polizei Hamburg’s press officer fended off the journalists.
As the clot of journalists on the Presidium steps dissolved, one of them turned to Tiedemann.
‘How did you know all that about what happened?’
The newspaperman indicated the Presidium building with a jerk of his head. ‘I’ve got an inside source. A really good inside source…’
10.15 a.m.: Schanzenviertel, Hamburg
Maybe she should not have set the alarm system for such a short absence from her office: Ingrid Fischmann had returned from the post office a block away, where she had mailed the package of photographs and information she had prepared for the policeman, Fabel.
She cursed as she dropped the black notebook with the alarm number on the floor. She bent down to pick it up, causing some of the contents to tumble from her open shoulder-bag, and she heard the clatter of her keys on the tiled floor of the hallway. It was always such a fuss just to get in and out of her office, mainly because the key code refused to take up residence in her memory. But Ingrid Fischmann knew that it was a necessary eviclass="underline" she had to be careful.
The Red Army Faction had officially disbanded in 1998 and the fall of the Berlin Wall had rendered the foundations of the belief system behind such groups redundant. The RAF, the IRA – even, it seemed, ETA – were consigning themselves to the history books. European domestic terrorism seemed an ever more remote concept, compared to that which came from outside. Terrorism in the twenty-first century had taken on a totally different hue and the ideology was religious rather than socio-political. Nevertheless, the people Fischmann exposed through her journalism were very much of the here and now. And many had a history of violence.
‘Okay, okay…’ she said to the alarm control panel in response to its imperative of rapid, urgent electronic beeps. She retrieved the notebook and, not having time to find her glasses, peered at it from a distance to transfer the numbers to the control keypad, stamping the last number with her finger in decisive conclusion. The beeping stopped. Except it did not.
It was like an echo of the alarm sound, but a different pitch. And it wasn’t coming from the keypad. It took Fischmann a moment, standing stock-still and frowning in concentration, to work out the direction of the sound. From her office.
She followed the beeping sound into the office. It was coming from her desk. She unlocked and opened the top drawer.
‘Oh…’ was all she said.
It was all she had the chance to say. Her brain had only just enough time to process what her eyes were telling it; to take in the cables, the batteries, the blinking LED display, the large sand-coloured packet.
Ingrid Fischmann was dead the instant after her brain had put together the elements to form a single word.
Bomb.
10.15 a.m.: Police Presidium, Hamburg
‘I hope this pays off,’ said van Heiden. ‘A great deal of our work depends on the cooperation of the media. When they get wind of this they will not be happy.’
‘It’s a risk we’ve got to take,’ said Fabel. He sat at the conference table with Maria, Werner, Anna, Henk and the two forensic specialists, Holger Brauner and Frank Grueber. There was another man at the table: a short, fat man with glasses and a black leather jacket.
‘They’ll get over it,’ said Jens Tiedemann. ‘But, for the sake of my paper, I would rather everyone thought I was duped into the story, rather than being a co-conspirator, as it were.’
Fabel nodded. ‘I owe you, Jens. Big time. This killer knows how to communicate with me, but it’s a one-way street. The only way I can get him to believe that I have dropped the case is for it to be announced publicly.’
‘You’re welcome, Jan.’ Tiedemann stood up to leave. ‘I just hope he buys it.’
‘So do I,’ said Fabel. ‘But at least we’ve got my daughter Gabi out of the city and under protection. I’ve got a twenty-four-hour watch on Susanne as well. As for me, I will have to spend most of my time in here, out of sight but running the show through my core team. Officially, Herr van Heiden has taken over the case.’ He stood up and shook Tiedemann’s hand. ‘You put on a convincing show. It’s bought us some time. Like I said, I owe you.’
‘Yes – I rather think you do.’ Tiedemann’s fleshy face was split by a broad smile. ‘And you can be certain that I’ll call it in one day.’
‘I’m sure you will.’
After the reporter left, the smile faded from Fabel’s lips. ‘We’ve got to move fast on this. The Hamburg Hairdresser seems to have an ability to second-guess everything we do. And he seems to have enormous resources, both intellectual and material, to call on. For all I know, he was expecting exactly the kind of announcement that was “forced” out of us by Jens at the press conference. In which case we’re screwed. But if he has gone for it, then he may feel less under pressure because he believes that I’m no longer leading the inquiry. What I don’t understand is why it is so important for him that I am out of the picture.’
‘You are our best murder detective. And with a particularly high conviction rate,’ said van Heiden.
After the meeting Fabel asked to speak to van Heiden in private.
‘Certainly, Fabel. What is it?’
‘It’s this…’ Fabel handed him a sealed envelope. ‘My resignation. I wanted you to have it now so that you are aware of my intentions. Obviously, I am not going to leave until this case is over. But as soon as it is I am quitting the Polizei Hamburg.’
‘You can’t mean this, Fabel.’ Van Heiden looked shocked. A reaction that Fabel hadn’t expected from van Heiden, a man he had always assumed had been indifferent to him; particularly because of Fabel’s apparent disregard for van Heiden’s authority. ‘I meant what I said earlier – we can’t afford to lose you, Fabel…’
‘I appreciate the sentiments, Herr Criminal Director. But I’m afraid my mind is set on it. I had already decided, but when I saw those photographs of Gabi on my cellphone… Anyway, I’m sure you will find a replacement. Maria Klee and Werner Meyer are both excellent officers.’
‘Do they know?’
‘Not yet,’ said Fabel. ‘And, if you don’t mind, I’d like to keep it under wraps until the case is over. They have enough to think about for now.’
Van Heiden tapped the envelope against his open palm, as if assessing the weight of its contents. ‘Don’t worry, Fabel. I am telling no one about this unless I have to. In the meantime, I just hope that you change your mind.’