Craig Russell - The Valkyrie Song

‘Yep,’ said Fabel. ‘Still involved.’

‘Pity,’ said Martina mischievously.

‘What was the story with Westland?’ asked Fabel. ‘How come he gave you the slip?’

‘What can I tell you? The usual rock-star megalomania. They pay us thousands of euros a day to keep them safe, then think it’s all a game. Sometimes I think we’re there for the cameras more than anything. Status symbols or shit like that. Westland was an arsehole. No big surprise there… He spent half the tour drunk and the other half chasing nineteen-year-old girls. The guy’s in his fifties, for Christ’s sake. To be honest, we saw him as a relatively low risk. Fending off drunks, persistent autograph hunters, paparazzi, that kind of thing. Anyway, we did a double-up on him, me and Lorenz. Lorenz is all bulk and no brains but he’s good for visible presence, if you know what I mean, even if he is getting on a bit. And, like I said, not one of nature’s great thinkers. He’s a Saxon from Gorlitz, bless him. Ex-Volkspolizei. Still calls a hamburger a Grilletta and probably jerks off to pictures of Katja Witt wearing a Free German Youth blouse.’

Fabel laughed. ‘You’re pretty scathing for someone from the East yourself.’

‘I’m from Mecklenburg — a totally different proposition from the Valley of the Clueless,’ said Martina with a smug grin, referring to the parts of the former East Germany which had not been able to pick up West German TV before the Wall came down. It was an affectionate jibe: it was exactly in the ‘Valley of the Clueless’ that the Monday Demonstrations had begun the peaceful mass protest movement that ultimately brought down the Communist regime.

‘Anyway,’ continued Martina, ‘we were taking Westland back to the Hotel Vierjahrzeiten from a concert at the Sporthalle arena when he pipes up that he’d like to see the Reeperbahn, never been there, heard all about it, the Beatles, all that crap. I tell him it’s not what it’s cracked up to be and anyway it’s not on the route to the hotel but he makes a fuss and we end up taking him on a brief guided tour.’

‘I would have thought he would have been too tired after a concert,’ said Fabel.

‘Yeah, well… he seemed pretty lively. He was doing a lot of sniffing in the back of the car and I don’t think he had a cold, if you catch my drift. No doubt it’ll all come out in the autopsy. The funny thing was he had pissed off a few people by refusing to attend the post-concert party — tells them he’s too tired and then badgers us to take him to the Reeperbahn. Anyway, we do the tour thing but all Westland is interested in is seeing Herbertstrasse and he starts giggling like a schoolgirl. So we take him. Of course, because it’s Herbertstrasse and because I’m a woman, I can’t go in so I drop him and Lorenz at one end and go and wait at the other. The Davidwache end. Naturally, Westland finds it easy to bewilder Lorenz and all the time I think he’s with Westland he’s actually just standing around like an idiot waiting for him at the far end. Next thing I know Westland’s trying to repack his intestines and my business is down the tubes.’

‘You say he was pretty insistent about going to Herbertstrasse. Specifically Herbertstrasse and not Grosse Freiheit. Do you think there’s any chance it was prearranged? That maybe he had agreed to meet someone after losing you by cutting through Herbertstrasse?’

Martina furrowed her brow in thought for a moment. ‘I doubt it. Could be, I suppose, but it all seemed pretty spontaneous to me.’

‘It’s just that it seems odd. If Westland was looking for a little bit of cheap excitement, then why go to the bother of giving you the slip where he did? I find it strange that he didn’t just go with one of the window girls. You say he told you he had never been to Herbertstrasse before?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So either he tore along Herbertstrasse and out the other end before you got there, or he cut through the side alley at number seven and out past the erotic-art museum. That looks pretty planned to me — like he knew where he was going.’

‘He probably didn’t. Like I say, I still think it was all spur-of-the-moment stuff.’

Martina went through the evening in detail: exact times, whom Westland had talked to, what he had talked about, how the concert had gone. Martina became, once more, the police officer and without prompting gave Fabel all the information he needed. Westland had made two calls before the concert: one to his wife, the second to his accountant regarding an investment or deal he was involved in.

‘He spent some time alone in his dressing room before going on stage,’ explained Martina. ‘It’s possible he took or made calls then, on his cellphone. There was no contact that I’m aware of after the performance, other than a brief call to the woman who was organising the concert. She was the one who wanted him to attend the post-concert party with Hamburg’s good and great. I got the impression she — I mean the organiser — wasn’t too chuffed when he cried off. After all, it was the whole point of the exercise: to raise awareness of the charity and after all that effort he couldn’t be bothered doing a simple meet-and-greet afterwards. He was more interested in getting to the Reeperbahn.’

‘We’ll check his cellphone,’ said Fabel.

‘Oh, didn’t you know? His mobile’s been swiped. Wallet, too. And he had a diary — like a mini-organiser — that he always had with him. Whoever killed him nicked that as well.’

‘So it could be a robbery?’

Martina gave a bitter laugh. ‘No. But it could be the killer trying to disguise it as a robbery. The theft was amateur. The killing’s the work of art.’

They talked for a while longer. Professional though her report was, there was nothing in what Martina had to say that offered any substantial leads.

‘Not much help, is it?’ Martina read his mind.

‘Not much. But there again, this whole thing could simply be what it seems — a random senseless attack.’

‘By the Angel?’ Martina asked. ‘You don’t really think she’s come back after ten years?’

‘Who knows? According to the girl who found Westland, the wound inflicted on him was very professional. Single cut. One stroke.’

‘Since when are hookers experts on knife wounds?’

‘Since they started studying medicine at Hamburg Uni,’ said Fabel flatly. ‘If you remember, the Angel was a dab hand with a blade.’

‘I’m not likely to forget,’ said Martina. ‘I was stationed here when the second last murder took place. I won’t forget that crime scene in a hurry. We found him dead in his car in Seilerstrasse. Minus genitalia. The last one was dumped in a corner of Heligen-Geist-Feld. Also minus working parts. That’s why I don’t think this is the Angel. No castration, the fatal knife wound was in the belly, not the throat

… and there’s a gap of nearly ten years. The other thing is that the Angel never stole from her victims. Other than their love tackle, that is. And anyway, like I said, I’ve seen the Angel’s work. If that girl hadn’t told me what Westland had said, I wouldn’t have made the connection.’

‘Maybe she misheard him. He was speaking in English.’

They were interrupted by Carstens Kaminski, the Davidwache commander, who stuck his head around the conference-room door.

‘Okay, Jan, whether the attacker was the Angel or not, this one is now officially all yours. I just got the call from St Georg. Westland’s dead.’

It was a dry night but bitterly cold, the kind of cold you felt in your lungs when you breathed in the night air. Fabel took Werner with him. They left through the rear exit to Davidwache and walked to the murder scene. They headed up Davidstrasse and passed the end of Herbertstrasse with its red-painted metal baffles.