Craig Russell - The Valkyrie Song

‘It is the Latin form of “muliebrity”. You know, the quality of being female. It is the name of the magazine I work for. And the charity we support.’ She looked pointedly back at Fabel. ‘We organise emergency accommodation for women subject to domestic violence.’

‘That’s an interesting name,’ said Susanne, still smiling. ‘Is that where the Spanish mujer comes from?’

Somehow, Susanne managed to steer the conversation into calmer waters and, after a while, Deicher drifted off to mingle with other delegates.

‘Thanks for that,’ said Fabel when Deicher was gone. ‘That woman was really beginning to wind me up. I don’t know why they insisted on sending me to this.’

‘Because you’re the head of Hamburg’s Murder Commission, and, like it or not, what Frau Deicher was saying is true: we still live in a society where women are victimised by violence. Anyway, I thought you did really well.’ Susanne smiled and straightened his tie, as if she were about to send him off to school. ‘Especially because women get you all flustered.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Fabel indignantly.

‘Well, you do. It’s pretty clear you think we’re from a completely different planet. But don’t worry about it, most men are the same.’

Fabel was about to respond when his cellphone buzzed. He checked the call screener. It was the Murder Commission.

‘Sorry,’ he said with a shrug as he lifted the phone to his ear. ‘Probably another murder.’

‘If it is,’ said Susanne, ‘even with all of these Angel killings at the moment, I’ll bet the victim is female…’

Fabel met Anna and Werner in the hallway outside the interview room. Both officers wore an expression that was less than triumphant.

‘Tell me this is our killer…’ said Fabel.

‘She looked good for it, Jan,’ said Werner. ‘She looked really good. She lured me onto waste ground and out of sight. She didn’t seem to know the drill for a hooker and when she reached inside her coat we took her down.’

‘But?’

‘Her name is Viola Dahlke,’ explained Anna. ‘She’s forty-five and has no previous convictions. She’s a housewife from Billstedt.’

‘That doesn’t mean she’s not our killer. Did you get a knife?’

‘No,’ said Anna. ‘When she reached inside her coat Werner and I both thought that she was going for a knife, but it turned out to be a packet of condoms.’

‘Condoms?’

‘Nothing else,’ said Anna. ‘Don’t ask me what a forty-five-year-old housewife from Billstedt was doing in the red-light district offering to ring Werner’s bell.’

‘All right,’ said Fabel, ‘I won’t. I’ll go and ask her myself…’

Arrest is a deprivation of choice. You are removed to a place not of your choosing and your freedom to leave that place is taken from you. Career criminals accept arrest as a natural element of their lives, even the ones who fight and struggle every centimetre to the cells. For everyone else, the experience of arrest is traumatic. At the very least surreal.

Fabel could tell at first glance that Viola Dahlke had never been in custody before. There was a good chance she’d never even set foot inside a police station before, far less the Police Presidium. Dahlke looked startled, confused. Afraid. Her face was pale behind her overdone make-up and the stark lighting of the interview room seemed to jaundice her pallor and deepen the shadows under her cheekbones. Her hair was the dull putty-blonde that many North German women dyed their hair when it started to lose its natural colour and pulled up into a ponytail. The make-up and the hairstyle looked all wrong on her, like an outfit that didn’t fit right.

‘Frau Dahlke, I take it it has been explained to you that under the terms of Article One-Three-Six of the Criminal Procedure Code you have the right to remain silent. You also have the right to a legal representative. Do you understand these rights?’

Viola Dahlke nodded. She looked as if she was carrying the world on her shoulders and was resigned to the burden. ‘I don’t want a lawyer. I want to go home. I’m sorry. If I’ve broken the law I’ll pay the fine. I didn’t mean any harm. I’m not really… I’m not really one of those women.’

‘Frau Dahlke, I don’t think you understand. We’re not interested in whether you are a prostitute, full-time, part-time or not at all. I am Principal Detective Chief Commissar Fabel of the Murder Commission. The officers who arrested you were murder detectives.’

‘Murder?’ Dahlke raised eyelids heavy with mascara. Genuine shock. Her fear cranked up a ratchet. ‘What have I got to do with murder?’

‘You’ve heard about what happened last week? Let’s face it, Frau Dahlke, you can’t have missed it, it’s been all over the press and TV. Jake Westland, the British pop singer.’

Realisation began to dawn on Dahlke’s face. A terrified realisation. She searched Fabel’s face for something. Reassurance, maybe. He withheld it.

‘I’ve got nothing to do with that…’ Her voice was tremulous. ‘I swear I’ve got nothing to do with that.’

‘Frau Dahlke, you are a middle-aged housewife masquerading as a prostitute and you tried to lure one of my male officers into a dark corner. Last week, less than two hundred metres from where you were arrested, Jake Westland was lured into a dark corner and murdered by someone pretending to be a prostitute.’

Dahlke stared at Fabel as if lost for words. Or just lost.

‘I take it you can see the seriousness of your position.’

‘I didn’t… I wouldn’t… I didn’t mean anyone any harm.’

‘Where were you between eleven p.m. on Saturday the twenty-sixth and one a.m. on Sunday the twenty-seventh?’

‘I was at home. In bed.’

‘Who can confirm that?’

‘My husband.’ Again Dahlke’s expression revealed that her fear had suddenly been ratcheted up a couple of notches. ‘Oh please, no… please don’t speak to my husband.’

‘Frau Dahlke, you still don’t seem to understand the seriousness of your position. If we cannot establish your whereabouts for the time of the murder you will be held here for further questioning and we will carry out full forensic searches of your home. If you were at home with your husband then we must have him verify the fact.’

‘But I didn’t do anything wrong!’ she sobbed. ‘I didn’t hurt anyone. I swear.’

‘Do you work, Frau Dahlke?’

‘I work in the local library. Part-time.’

‘And is your husband in employment?’

‘Yes — he’s an engineer.’

‘So why do you work as a prostitute?’

‘I don’t. I…’ Again she looked at Fabel with eyes desperate for some kind of understanding. Then the desperation was gone: her head bowed and her gaze became fixed on the table in front of her. ‘I’ve only done it three times,’ she said, her voice now leaden and dull once more. ‘I don’t do it for the money.’

‘Then why? Why on earth would you put yourself or your health at risk?’

She looked up again. Her eyes were glossy with tears that tumbled down her cheeks, streaking them with mascara. ‘I’m ordinary. I’ve always been ordinary. Dull. I have a dull life with a dull husband and dull kids. I’d never been with another man before I got married. I went into the Kiez one night. Just to look. I don’t know why. I wanted to see what happened. The type of people who go there. I don’t know why I did it, but I went into a bar and this man… I did it with him.’

‘Where?’

‘In his car.’ The sobs were now silent convulsions between statements.

‘I still don’t understand why,’ said Fabel. ‘Why would you want to do that?’