‘ Muliebritas,’ Vestergaard said aloud.
‘It’s a feminist title,’ explained Fabel. ‘The title is Latin. It’s where the English word “muliebrity” comes from. The female equivalent of virility. There’s a subtle difference from femininity. We would translate it as Fraulichkeit in German. I suppose you have a Danish word for it.
‘ Kvindelighed,’ said Vestergaard.
Fabel stared at the magazine. ‘I tell you what else this is: a prime example of synchronicity. The night Jake Westland was murdered, there was a massive feminist protest in Herbertstrasse that contributed to the confusion. And it was organised by Muliebritas.’
Werner reappeared with some evidence bags. Fabel slipped the magazine into one and handed it to Vestergaard. Easing the computer and its power connector out of the recess in the floor, he placed them in a tagged evidence bag, putting the data sticks in a separate one.
He turned to Vestergaard and Martina. ‘We’ll get this stuff down to Tech Division and see if they can get into the computer. I’m guessing it’s encrypted, but the tech guys will be able to get through it. God knows how many paedophiles we’ve nicked because they thought they’d locked up their porn safe and sound.’
‘A paedophile is one thing,’ said Astrid Bremer, who had appeared behind them. ‘A professional spy is another. That is what we’ve got here, isn’t it?’
‘I think so, Astrid,’ said Fabel. ‘But from a pre-digital age. This was maybe one area he wasn’t too hot on. How are you getting on downstairs?’
‘It’ll take a while. Days, maybe. But Holger said he could spare me if you need something special up here.’
‘Anything,’ said Fabel. ‘We’ve got one killer in custody but there’s another one, maybe even two, on the loose. And she’s connected to the victim, Drescher. I need anything that can point us in the right direction.’
‘Do you think she’s been in this apartment?’
‘No. Probably not. But if there’s a trace of anybody other than the vic having been in here I want to know about it. Also, if you come across anything unusual let me know. But can you start with this.’ Fabel handed Astrid the copy of Muliebritas. ‘This doesn’t belong here. It could have been handled by the person we’re looking for. Either that or it’s the mechanism he used to contact her. I need it checked before we start going through it with a cryptologist.’
‘I’ll get right onto it,’ said Astrid, and she smiled broadly at Fabel.
The first thing Fabel did when he got back to the Presidium was to phone Criminal Director van Heiden to approve the overtime for his team and the extra officers he would need to draft in. Van Heiden gave him the authority immediately and without question, which surprised Fabel a little: he had become used to his superior being grudging about any extra expenses on an investigation, as if he personally had to finance them. But, there again, this case had started off as three: Jespersen’s death, the Angel killings in St Pauli and Drescher’s torture and murder. It was all getting too messy, too political and the media were focusing on it. Complication was something van Heiden had difficulty dealing with. Fabel guessed that his superior was under pressure to clear it all up as quickly as possible.
‘Are you convinced all of these crimes are connected?’ asked van Heiden.
‘Pretty convinced,’ said Fabel. He gestured to Karin Vestergaard, who had just come into his office, to sit down. ‘It’s safe to assume that this GDR hit squad called the Valkyries has been operating for profit from here in Hamburg. Drescher ran it and he’s been killed by one of his former trainees.’
‘He didn’t recognise her?’ asked van Heiden.
‘I get the impression she was a reject, probably because of her mental-health problems. And it was a long time ago. She probably just dropped off his radar and out of his memory.’
‘Okay,’ said van Heiden. ‘Keep me informed. So I can keep others informed.’
‘Of course.’ Fabel hung up and turned his attention to Vestergaard. Again he noticed that she had done something with her make-up that had subtly changed her look and once more Fabel was struck by how attractive her face was, yet how forgettable. Maybe it was something that Margarethe Paulus shared with her. Maybe the appearance of the Valkyries had been a criterion: attractive but forgettable. Maybe that was why Drescher had not recognised his killer.
‘You said you’ve been given new information from the Norwegian investigators of Halvorsen’s murder?’ Fabel asked her.
‘The Norwegian National Police have been in touch with me through my office.’ Vestergaard leaned forward and placed a note on Fabel’s desk. ‘This man — Ralf Sparwald — is someone Jorgen Halvorsen seems to have had contact with. It’s believed that Halvorsen visited Hamburg to talk to him.’
‘Who is he?’ Fabel examined the name and address written on the note.
‘He’s a doctor of some kind. His name was flagged up when the Norwegian police got a warrant to access Halvorsen’s email account. They could only get what is still in his in-box, uncollected. There was an out-of-office reply from this guy’s email address. The Norwegians knew I was in Hamburg and that there was a possible connection here, so they sent this on to me.’
Fabel checked his watch. Most of the day had been spent at the Drescher crime scene or in briefings. It was now six-thirty p.m. ‘Okay — so you think I should speak to Sparwald? It’ll have to be tomorrow now.’
‘No, I think we should speak to Sparwald, if that’s okay with you.’
Fabel shrugged. ‘I don’t mind you coming along to observe. But please don’t forget whose inquiry this is.’
‘Somehow I don’t think you’ll let me forget,’ said Vestergaard, and smiled.
The address Vestergaard had given Fabel for Sparwald was to the north of the city, in Poppenbuttel, in the Wandsbeck district. Wandsbeck had once been part of Schleswig-Holstein and had only been incorporated into Hamburg at the same time as Altona and even now, sitting on the shores of the Alster River, Poppenbuttel still felt more like a country village than a suburb.
As soon as Fabel and Vestergaard arrived, it was clear that the address they had been given was Sparwald’s place of work rather than residence. SkK BioTech was located in an unobtrusive, low-level building set in an expanse of well-laid-out garden and fringed with winter-bare trees. Five smallish flags flew from poles set next to each other, UN-style, in the garden: the SkK BioTech logo fluttered in the cold breeze next to the flags of the EU, Germany and, Fabel noticed, the white-on-red Nordic cross of Denmark. There was another flag beside it.
‘They must have known you were coming,’ Fabel said to Vestergaard, with a nod to the Danish flag. He looked at the flag next to it. It was a non-national pennant: a white field with a small flared red cross on it.
The small, dumpy receptionist took a while to come to the desk from an office behind. From her reaction, SkK BioTech was not accustomed to visitors, particularly ones without an appointment. Fabel held up his police identity card.
‘We need to speak to Herr Sparwald, if he’s available.’
‘Herr Doctor Sparwald,’ corrected the receptionist. She looked from Fabel to Vestergaard and back. She had the nervousness and vague expression of groundless guilt of someone unaccustomed to dealing with the police. ‘I’m afraid he’s not here. He’s on leave. Another two weeks.’
‘I see…’ Fabel considered his options for a moment. ‘What is it you do here?’
‘I work in the admin department. Deal with correspondence and answer the phones.’
Fabel laughed. ‘I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. I meant what does SkK BioTech do, exactly?’
‘Oh…’ The fleshy cheeks of the small receptionist coloured. ‘We work for medical research companies. Herr Doctor Luttig could tell you more. Shall I fetch him?’
‘If that’s not too much trouble,’ said Fabel.