Craig Russell - The Valkyrie Song

Sylvie began to feel at the mercy of events: that she was just being pulled along by the forces around her, just like everybody else. That was the problem. She had become reactive. Lazy. Back then, she hadn’t waited for things to happen: she’d made them happen.

Sylvie hugged herself against the cold, pulling her thick woollen cardigan tight around her, and went back into her living room, closing the windows against the chill night. She poured herself another glass of red wine and sat cross-legged on the floor, letting her eyes range over the scattered material around her. Somewhere in there was a starting place. Somewhere there was some detail, some forgotten remark or photograph or piece of information that would point her in the direction of this killer. The Angel killings in St Pauli had launched her career: she had put so much into the case and had reaped the rewards. If she wasn’t first to deliver the scoop on these latest killings, they could equally easily end her career.

She sipped again at her wine. She could be pretty certain that she would get no help from that pompous arse Fabel. The Polizei Hamburg were no great fans of her after her groundbreaking documentary on the case ten years ago. Cops have long memories. And anyway, there was something about Fabel she disliked intensely, and she got the idea that the feeling was mutual.

Sylvie knew that there was only one way forward for her: she had to find out who murdered Jake Westland before the police did. She didn’t have their resources, but she also didn’t work under the same kind of restrictions they did. And, she knew, she was a whole lot smarter. But her main advantage was that she was pretty sure the cops were looking in the wrong direction. They were probably trying to establish links between the current murders and the Angel killings ten years ago.

And this wasn’t the Angel. These latest killings were the work of a copycat. Sylvie just knew it.

Armin Lensch wasn’t sure what hurt most: his bruised testicles or the laughing and taunting from his mates. He had staggered after them as they had made their way to a pub near Hans-Albers-Platz, they had found a table and Armin had squeezed into the corner, sipping tentatively at his beer, hoping the nausea would subside.

‘Police brutality — that’s what it was. Police brutality…’ he said in earnest and was greeted with howls of laughter.

‘No, it wasn’t,’ said Karl, leaning in close. ‘That wasn’t police brutality — that was you having your ass kicked by a girl. Did you see the fucking size of her? You got your ass kicked by a little girl.’

‘She caught me unawares,’ muttered Armin.

‘No, she didn’t, she caught you in the balls!’ More laughter.

‘Fuck you,’ said Armin, shoving past them and wincing at the surge of pain in his groin. ‘Fuck the lot of you.’

He staggered out into the cold night air. The nausea followed him out of the pub and collided with him. He voided his gut onto the pavement. A couple of passers-by cursed at him.

‘Fuck the lot of you,’ he said again, under his breath. He would make the bastards pay. Who did they think they were? Armin and his friends all worked in the Neustadt-Nord part of Hamburg. They all worked there but Armin was the star. He was the one who was going to the top. And he would get all the help he needed: now that he had found out what he had found out. He started to walk back in the direction of the Spielbudenplatz and Reeperbahn. He would get a taxi there. He thought about the cop who had kneed him in the groin. He wasn’t going to let her get away with that. Here, now, he was just like everybody else with too much drink in them. But outside the Kiez, in his normal life, he was somebody. He was connected. He would make the bitch pay. But the thought of her made him want to cry: to be beaten up by a fucking woman. For Armin, women were good for only one thing. He had seen them at work. Getting promotions over him. He knew how they managed that, the whores. He had had a lot of girlfriends, but nothing that had lasted too long. Normally they would get out of line and Armin would give them a slap and they’d get all hysterical on him. Fuck them. Fuck them all.

Armin walked on, his internal rage and the ache from his groin making him blind to all around him. He stopped. Where the fuck was he? He had thought he knew his way around the Kiez well enough, but he must have taken a wrong turning. He took a moment to reorient himself and took the next right. He saw the Reeperbahn ahead of him but he was further up than Spielbudenplatz. Still, it wouldn’t be difficult to find a taxi. At that moment he caught sight of a beige Mercedes and his hand went up. An automatic reaction: in Germany, all taxis were beige; all beige cars were taxis. He eased himself with a moan into the back seat.

‘Eppendorf…’ he said between his teeth.

‘Are you okay?’ asked the driver. ‘You don’t look well.’

Fucking great, thought Armin. A female taxi driver.

‘Just take me to Eppendorf,’ he said. The woman driver shrugged, started the car and took a left into the Reeperbahn.

It was only after she took the wrong turning at the end of the Reeperbahn and he realised that they were down by the river that Armin noticed that there was no meter in the front of the taxi; nor was there a certificate on display with the driver’s name, photograph and City of Hamburg licence.

By which time it was too late.

Fabel felt exhausted. It had been a much more gruelling experience than he had expected. Susanne had come along too and he had been grateful for her presence.

‘That was very worthwhile,’ said a tall, thin woman of about fifty as she approached Fabel. She had a name badge that informed him she was Hille Deicher, representing Muliebritas. ‘I hope you can take something useful away from our workshop.’

Fabel smiled. He could never understand why business people, self-help gurus and others insisted on calling conferences ‘workshops’. No one made anything. None of the people who attended these things worked with their hands.

‘It was interesting,’ said Fabel. ‘But I hope I made it clear that the Polizei Hamburg needs no prompting to deal with the issue of domestic violence, or violence against women in general. We are very

…’ He struggled for the word.

‘Proactive,’ interjected Susanne helpfully.

‘Quite,’ said Fabel. ‘We’ve been running an anti-violence programme for several years now. We do, I assure you, have a zero-tolerance attitude when it comes to violence against women or children. And we have one of the most successful records in Europe in dealing with the issue. But I have to say that we are committed to protecting all of Hamburg’s citizens, regardless of gender. Or ethnicity.’

‘I’m afraid that crime isn’t as gender-blind,’ said Deicher. ‘You said yourself in your presentation that the vast majority of murders are men killing women, and the vast majority of those are within the domestic environment. Add to that the countless assaults on women in their own homes.’

‘All that is true.’ Fabel shot a pleading glance at Susanne. ‘And we have, as I said, made it a priority area.’

‘Maybe that’s why this woman in St Pauli is committing these murders.’ Deicher smiled without warmth. ‘Maybe she’s motivated to redress the balance of male-on-female violence. After all, I can’t think of a better place for her to go about it. It is a farce that there is a street in Hamburg to which women are forbidden entry.’

‘Listen, Frau Deicher,’ Fabel felt himself suddenly angry. ‘It isn’t the police or the state that-’

‘What does Muliebritas mean?’ Susanne interrupted Fabel, directing her question, and her smile, at Deicher.