Craig Russell - A fear of dark water

‘You’re talking nonsense, Fabel,’ said Wiegand, but without anger.

‘Dominik Korn is dead and my guess is that he’s been dead for nearly fifteen years. I believe he survived the accident, but not for long. And he died before Herr Wiegand had the opportunity to alter all of the documents left behind. You see, Korn recognised Wiegand’s megalomania and greed. He suspected that he had been siphoning off funds from the Project. After the accident, he became convinced that Wiegand had sabotaged the Pharos One in an attempt to gain sole control of the Corporation. In the months following the accident, for as long as he survived, Korn made sure that Wiegand was shut out. Of course, Herr Wiegand could have launched a legal challenge, but, at the end of the day, the Korn-Pharos Corporation was all about one man: Dominik Korn. So when Korn eventually succumbed to his injuries, he was reinvented as a virtual person. A phoney leader of a cult with phoney philosophies. As he seemed to become more reclusive and his pronouncements, generated by you, became more bizarre, it fitted that he became a remote figure, a recluse seen only by a close inner-circle entourage. And — surprise, surprise — he invested Wiegand with almost total power of attorney.’

Wiegand laughed. ‘You know something, Fabel? You’re going to have a hell of a time proving any of this in a court of law. Whatever you have on that thing…’ he pointed derisively at the data stick ‘… you have no original documents or testimony. And as for these other murders, I’m saddened to find that Badorf, a trusted employee, has turned out to be a psychopath and has used the Office of Consolidation and Compliance for his own ends. You’ll never prove that I had any connection at all with any of this. And as for Dominik’s accident? That is something that’s well outside your jurisdiction. As is Dominik, for that matter.’ Wiegand stood up, his posture and gaze defiant. ‘And trust me, you will never, ever be able to prove that Dominik does not exist.’

‘True,’ said Fabel. ‘That’s why you’re free to go. But there are some people waiting for you downstairs. They’ve travelled overnight from the US Embassy in Berlin. I believe one is from the State Department and the other is a young lady from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. After all, Dominik Korn is, or was, a US citizen. They’re really keen to discuss Mister Korn’s whereabouts with you. In fact, I believe they have a writ of habeas corpus with them.’

Wiegand stared at Fabel, lost for words.

‘You see,’ said Fabel, drumming his fingers on the copy of The Judge and His Hangman, ‘maybe I can’t prove that Dominik Korn doesn’t exist. But, for your sake, I hope you can prove that he does.’

In the months that followed, Fabel watched with interest as Peter Wiegand made the headlines. He actually found himself using the internet to follow events on American news channels. Wiegand fought extradition vigorously but lost, and when the Korn luxury yacht finally docked in Portland, Maine, the American authorities established that there was no Dominik Korn on board.

As Fabel had guessed would happen, the FBI charged Wiegand with the murder of an American citizen outside the US. Fabel did not believe that Wiegand had caused Korn’s death and he also knew that the US authorities would also struggle to put a murder case together. But, as the investigation progressed, more and more revelations about Wiegand’s dealings came to light. Corporate crime, Fabel realised, made bigger headlines in the US than murder, and he knew that Wiegand was unlikely to see the light of day again.

The German press also had a lot to report: Frank Badorf, Wiegand’s head of the Consolidation and Compliance Office, made a full confession about organising the murders of Berthold Muller-Voigt, Daniel Fottinger and Jens Markull. He would not, however, make any statement incriminating his boss, nor about Meliha Kebir — or Yazar, as she had called herself. Which was a pity, because the night before his trial Badorf committed suicide by suffocating himself with a smuggled-in plastic bag.

There were three more things that happened almost coincidentally, about a week after Wiegand’s arrest. The first was that the familial DNA test proved that the torso found washed up at the Fischmarkt was not related to Mustafa Kebir. The second was that the Polizei Niedersachsen found the bodies of two men in a remote disused farmhouse near Cuxhaven. Both men had had their necks broken. Very professionally.

The third occurrence was the strangest. A butcher from Wilhelmsburg walked into the local police station and, in floods of remorseful tears, admitted the murder and dismemberment of his nagging wife, whose neatly cut-up remains he had dumped in the middle of the river.

The GlobalConcern Hamburg summit launched with the minimum of protest. At the opening plenary session, a minute’s silence was held for Berthold Muller-Voigt. No mention was made of Daniel Fottinger.

Fabel attended Berthold Muller-Voigt’s funeral, on a sunny day under a cloudless sky, along with a host of Hamburg’s great and good. Fabel was unsure why he had felt so compelled to attend; he had just been aware that there had been some connection between him and the politician that he needed to acknowledge. While he was at the graveside in Osdorf, he was surprised to see Tim Flemming there, hanging well back from the crowd, accompanied by a young woman whose face was hidden by her hat as she bowed her head, her shaking shoulder revealing that she was weeping. But what Fabel could see of her face reminded him of a photograph that he had once been shown.

He watched them leave before everyone else and thought of intercepting them with questions about two consolidators found with broken necks.

Instead Fabel decided to ignore them. As if they didn’t exist.