Craig Russell - The Valkyrie Song

‘What are we putting out to the press about the murder?’ he asked. ‘There weren’t any outside the place when I left.’

‘What’s your point?’ asked Fabel.

‘If Gerdes is this Major Drescher, then he was a spy by training and by inclination.’

‘So?’

‘So I’m betting that if he was running a contract-killer business, then he would have run his assassins as a spy cell. Strictly need-to-know basis. They will have had a close bond, but I’ll bet that they never came anywhere near his apartment.’

‘I get it,’ said Anna, suddenly animated. ‘So a murder in that apartment block or street won’t really mean anything to the Valkyrie unless the name Gerdes or Drescher is associated with it.’

‘Exactly,’ said Werner. ‘I’ll bet she doesn’t even know the name Gerdes.’ He turned to Fabel. ‘What if we “lose” the story, or disguise it as something else for a while? That means the Valkyrie won’t know he’s dead. Then, if we can work out the mechanism for contacting her — or them, if there are two — we can nail them.’

Fabel rubbed his chin thoughtfully and was reminded by the stubble rasping under his fingertips that he hadn’t had a chance to shave before rushing out to the Drescher murder scene. And that was how he saw it now: the Drescher murder scene.

‘It’s an idea…’ he said. ‘Sylvie Achtenhagen wasn’t outside the flat, so that would suggest that no one is making the connection yet. I’ll talk to the press department, see if they can fudge for a while… Okay, Werner — let’s run with the idea. The first thing we have to do is find out how Drescher contacted the Valkyrie. Let’s take his place apart.’

‘I’ve never seen you on the telly,’ said the old woman as she set the tray with coffee and baked biscuits on the table.

‘It’s a satellite station.’ Sylvie smiled as she took the cup handed to her. The coffee had a caramelly aftertaste. Rondo Melange. ‘I see you don’t have satellite. Our station covers most of the North. You really should have satellite. Don’t you watch a lot of TV?’

‘Oh yes — I have the TV on all day. Company, you see. And I would love to have satellite, but I can’t afford it.’ The old woman sat down. ‘Who is it you said you were looking for?’

Sylvie estimated that the woman wasn’t really that old. Maybe seventy. But, like many women of that age, she had given up: she was slightly overweight and saggy, and her pale skin looked rough, with a reddened eczematous disc to the right of her chin.

‘You worked for the MfS? Back then, in the old days, Frau Schneeg?’ Sylvie asked.

‘Oh yes…’ Frau Schneeg raised her hands and emptied her expression of anything that could be interpreted as guile. ‘But I wasn’t anything to do with all that kind of thing. You know, the snooping and stuff. I was just a filing clerk.’

‘I understand that, Frau Schneeg.’ Sylvie smiled. ‘Naturally. But you were involved in the personnel records department.’

‘Yes — pensions, staff allowances…’

‘Exactly. I was wondering if you could tell me if you knew any of these people.’ Sylvie laid the sheet out on the table, next to the embroidered doilies and the coffee and biscuits.

‘I really don’t want to get involved. You know what I mean: people here don’t know I worked in the ministry. I moved here to Halberstadt after the Wall came down. I have a niece here.’

‘I understand, Frau Schneeg.’ Sylvie replaced her smile with a concerned frown. ‘But I promise no one will know. I just want to find some of these people and no one need ever know where I got the information. That’s if you can help me at all. I’m looking for people who worked with either Colonel Adebach or Major Drescher.’

‘I don’t know…’

‘My station would be most grateful if you could help,’ said Sylvie. ‘I’m sure we could fix you up with a satellite box and dish — and a few subscriptions.’

For a moment Frau Schneeg looked at Sylvie intently, then said: ‘Let me have a look at your list…’

They sat in the living room of Drescher’s apartment, each of them wearing the same empty expression of dull frustration.

‘We’ve been here before,’ Karin Vestergaard said to Fabel.

‘There must be something here.’ Fabel sighed.

‘We’re not looking in the right places,’ said Werner. ‘We’re not devious enough. That’s what comes of growing up in a democracy.’

Fabel snapped his fingers. ‘Werner, you’re brilliant. You are absolutely right — we don’t know where to look. Or how to look.’ Taking out his wallet, he retrieved the business card Martina Schilmann had given him. He flipped it over to where she had handwritten her mobile number and keyed it into his cellphone.

‘Martina… It’s Jan Fabel.’

‘Hi, Jan. What can I do for you?’

‘Lorenz, your Saxon chum. You said he was ex-Volkspolizei.’

‘Yes, what of it?’

‘Did he serve after the Wall came down? In one of the new forces?’

‘No.’ Martina sounded suspicious. ‘What is this all about?’

‘Why didn’t he continue his police career?’

‘Jan,’ she said, with a sigh, ‘I can see where you’re going with this. Let me save time. The answer is yes, he was linked with the Stasi. That’s why he couldn’t get into one of the new forces. Why do you want to know?’

‘I have an apartment here that’s refusing to give up its secrets. The occupier was ex-Stasi. I need to know where to look.’

There was a silence at the other end of the connection.

‘Give me the address,’ Martina said at last. ‘I’ll bring him over myself…’

It took Martina Schilmann half an hour to arrive. Fabel had cleared the uniforms from the street, to attract as little attention as possible. In the digital age of cellphones that could take photographs and video, it never took long before someone was on to the television or newspapers. The city was no longer asleep and a heavy police presence in the street would be fully exposed to view.

Fabel had instructed the uniformed cops downstairs to conduct Schilmann and Lorenz Duhring directly up to the penthouse apartment.

Fabel guessed that Martina had been taking a day off: she was dressed in jeans, a heavy sweater and a thigh-length leather coat. Her blonde hair had been tied back in a ponytail and her face was naked of make-up. It made her look younger, more natural, and Fabel couldn’t help remembering why he had been attracted to Martina in the first place. It was as if she had read his thoughts and she smiled shyly.

Lorenz lumbered into the background: tall, thickset and dark.

‘This is Politidirektor Karin Vestergaard of the Danish National Police,’ explained Fabel in English. ‘We are cooperating on this case.’

The two women shook hands. A little coldly, thought Fabel. The dynamics of female relationships remained a mystery to him.

‘I’m afraid Lorenz doesn’t speak English,’ said Martina. ‘Poor chump got stuck with Russian at school.’

Fabel turned to Vestergaard. ‘Lorenz was a policeman in the former GDR. In the Volkspolizei. He wasn’t allowed to become a member of the new, post-change police forces because only members of the Volkspolizei who were free of any connection to the Stasi were allowed to continue as policemen.’

‘He’s ex-Stasi?’

‘He was one of their little helpers, let’s say,’ said Martina. ‘And he received training from them, which is what Jan was counting on. By the way, Jan, for your information, I didn’t know what Lorenz had been involved in. I guessed he’d been a Stasi unofficial, but, let’s face it, it’s a skills set that’s very useful in my line of work. I asked him on the way over here if he had taken part in house searches and he told me he had.’