Craig Russell - The Valkyrie Song

She had just taken out her Baedeker to check some of the addresses when her cellphone rang.

‘Hi, it’s Ivonne. I’ve got more information on Norivon, the company the latest St Pauli victim worked for.’

‘Anything interesting?’

‘Not really. It couldn’t be more boring, in fact. Norivon is an environmental waste-management company. They help companies comply with federal and EU regulations regarding waste. They make it go away, basically. But I got some new info through the contact I have in NeuHansa. She said that Armin Lensch, the guy who got wasted, was a grade-one arsehole and universally despised. Ambitious bastard, apparently, and didn’t mind treading on toes to get ahead. He was responsible for dealing with companies within the NeuHansa Group and had a reputation as an ass-kisser when it came to management.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Oh yes — this is the good bit. His little excursion into the Reeperbahn was a regular occurrence. He would go in with a bunch of others from work — none of whom could stand him, by the way — and get completely pissed and even more obnoxious than usual. Anyway, the night he was killed, he had a run-in with the law. Two plain-clothes cops were arresting a woman in Silbersacktwiete and Lensch started to get lippy. So one of the cops kneed him in the balls. A woman cop.’

‘Who were they arresting?’

‘That I don’t know, but they were Murder Commission.’

‘What did the female cop look like? Shortish, pretty, dark hair?’

‘That I don’t know, either.’

‘Anna Wolff…’ said Sylvie, more to herself than to Ivonne.

‘Sorry?’

‘It doesn’t matter. Good work, Ivonne. I’ve got some names and partial addresses for you. Can you see if you can locate them and get as much info as possible?’

‘Sure,’ said Ivonne. Sylvie ran through the information Wengert had given her.

‘We’re looking for a male Stasi officer, probably administrative staff stationed at the Lichtenberg headquarters.’

‘Okay,’ said Ivonne. ‘There was something else I meant to tell you

… nope, it’s gone.’

‘Phone back if you remember.’

Sylvie hung up and was tidying the file on the bed when her cellphone rang again.

‘That was quick,’ said Sylvie. ‘You remembered what it was?’

‘I hope you’re settled into your hotel, Sylvie.’ As soon as she heard the breathless voice she knew it was Siegfried.

‘What makes you think I’m in a hotel?’ she asked.

‘Now you’re just being stupid. And you’re not a stupid woman. Still on the trail of the big story? I suppose you think that you have my name now… that you can track me down and get what you want without paying? Oh yes, I know all about your chat with Herr Wengert.’

‘You Stasi scum really still have your tentacles everywhere, don’t you?’

‘There is no Stasi any more, Sylvie. And I resent being called scum. We did what we did because we believed in it. We believed in equality and freedom from poverty and exploitation. And because of that we’re now compared with the Nazis. So yes, some of us work together for self-protection.’ He had a sudden fit of coughing. ‘Anyway, I’m not interested in justifying myself to you. Especially to you. Have you got my money?’

‘Do you think I can just conjure up quarter of a million euros based on three photographs and the name of somebody who doesn’t exist?’

‘Who doesn’t seem to exist… Drescher and these girls were involved in an operation so secret and so ambitious that every effort was made to keep it hidden even from some of the command structure inside the MfS. Anyway, I thought I’d give you a little more, on account. Simply to prove that I really do have the information I say I have. Take a look under your pillow.’

Sylvie reached under the pillows, sliding her arm along until her hand found something. It was a large brown envelope.

‘How did you…?’

‘Now, Sylvie,’ the husky voice interrupted her. ‘Don’t be so naive. We were trained to get in and out of private spaces without detection. I’ll be in touch.’

The line went dead. Sylvie checked her phone to try to retrieve the number, but it had been withheld.

She opened the envelope. Inside was a magazine and four sheets of copy paper. Examining the magazine first, Sylvie saw it was called Muliebritas, and from what she could see was some kind of feminist title. She flicked through it quickly to see if there was anything stuffed into it, or if Siegfried had made any markings on the pages. Nothing. She would have to take time later to study it carefully. In the meantime, the only thing that was of interest to her was that Muliebritas was published by Bronsted Publishing, part of the NeuHansa Group.

She turned her attention to the four sheets of paper. Three of them each had one of the images that Siegfried had sent her in the email. Except, this time, there was a name beneath each face: Margarethe Paulus, Liane Kayser, Anke Wollner. The fourth sheet again had the name Georg Drescher, but this time it too was accompanied by an image: a man of about forty to forty-five. He had a strong, handsome face, with deep furrows in his cheeks and creases at his eyes, as if his had been a face accustomed to smiling. His amiable countenance was at odds with the uniform lapel flashes that indicated he was an officer of the MfS. Unlike the other photographs, his picture was in black and white and it was difficult to tell whether his hair was blond or greying. Given that twenty years had elapsed since anyone had worn a Stasi uniform, Sylvie tried to age him in her mind.

She looked at the pictures of the young women again. They were all pretty but gazed blankly and emotionlessly at the camera. Sylvie was again drawn to the girl with the so terribly empty eyes.

Liane Kayser. Her name was Liane Kayser.

Ute Cranz dragged Drescher further into the kitchen. He saw her hover over him, a scalpel in her hand. He felt sick and suddenly thought what a relief it would be to throw up. He guessed the muscle relaxant had eliminated his gag reflex and he would die choking on his own vomit. Without coughing. Without a struggle. At least it would be better than whatever Ute Cranz had planned for him. She pulled at his clothes and he saw the scalpel slice downwards. But he didn’t feel its contact: she was cutting through his clothes, tugging the remnants clear of his body. He was naked now and felt cold, probably more from fear than from the temperature of her apartment.

She lifted up the plastic sheeting and slid something behind his head and shoulders so that he was in a semi-sitting position. She sat a bed table across his leaden legs and placed a large laptop computer on it, the screen facing him and almost completely filling his field of vision. She hit a key and the screen filled with a photograph: lurid colours. Blood everywhere. A woman’s body lay naked, the head and face hidden from view, jammed between a gore-sodden bed and a blood-streaked wall.

‘This is what men do to women. Look at this. Do you see?’ Ute pressed the key again. Another scene: this time a dead woman lay semi-clothed in some bushes, a ligature around her neck. ‘Do you see?’ Another scene-of-crime photograph. ‘Do you see?’

She clicked on a command and the screen automatically switched from one scene to the next. Sickening images of murder. Rape. Violent pornographic images of women being abused. Female faces twisted in fear.

‘This is what men do to women. What men have always done to women. Men like you.’ Ute let the images run for a few more seconds, then she closed the lid and lifted the computer and tray away. Then she squatted beside Drescher and whispered into his ear. ‘Women are forced to live in fear. All over the world. Every day. Real fear. Real fear like the fear you’re feeling right now. I know you are afraid, Drescher. I know you’re very afraid. But still you’re asking yourself “Why? Why is she doing this?”’ She held a photograph up for him to see. ‘Do you know who that is? It’s my sister. Margarethe. She’s dead. She killed herself. When you had finished with her she went mad and they locked her up. Then she killed herself. The staff at the hospital she was in thought they had taken every precaution to prevent her committing suicide, but when you’ve been trained to kill others, to kill in so many ways, then it’s easy for you to kill yourself. You don’t need much in the way of means or opportunity.’