JF01 - Blood Eagle (12 page)

‘Hi, Herr Kriminalhauptkommissar. How’s the fight against crime?’

Fabel laughed. ‘What can I tell you? Just like your business, you’re always assured custom. How is the world of porn?’

The Turk laughed so loudly that the elderly couple looked across momentarily, still expressionless, before simultaneously and wordlessly turning their blank gaze back to the horizon.

‘Don’t do that any more. Technology, you see – video, DVD and CD-ROMs are the thing now.’ He sighed with an exaggerated wistfulness. ‘No one wants the good old traditional dirty photograph any more. It’s enough to force you into a respectable business.’

‘Somehow I don’t think there’s much danger of that.’ Fabel paused. ‘It’s good to see you again, Mahmoot. How are things, seriously?’

‘Okay. I’ve been selling the odd paparazzo shot to the tabloid press. I just cashed a cheque for two thousand euros from
SCHAU MAL!
for a pic of one of our dedicated and earnest city senators on his way out of a stripclub.’

‘
SCHAU MAL!
?’ Fabel looked puzzled.

Mahmoot laughed. ‘Oh they don’t mind dealing with a Turk if they get something that sells copies.’

‘And I dare say that the senator in question was a Social Democrat?’ Fabel asked.

‘Got it in one.’

‘I can’t understand why you would choose to deal with them. After all, they’re just a bunch of racist bastards.’

Mahmoot shrugged. ‘Listen. I was born and raised in this country. I’m as German as anyone. But because my parents came here as Turkish Gastarbeiters, I spent most of my life, in fact right up until the Schroeder government came in, not entitled to a German passport or nationality.’ The half smile faded from his face. ‘I’ve decided that whatever I can get out of this country I’ll take.’

Fabel stared out over the water. The ferry had touched the east side of the Alster at Uhlenhorst and was now heading south. ‘I can’t blame you, Mahmoot. It’s just that I think you’re really talented. Some of those photographs you took of immigrant families were brilliant … I hate seeing that talent going to waste.’

‘Listen, Jan. I was proud of that work, but no one wanted to buy it. So I take cheap shots for crappy tabloids and when that dries up I have to do porn shoots. I hate it, as you know, but I have to do it to earn a living.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘Anyway,’ the smile returned to Mahmoot’s face, ‘you didn’t call for a meet to discuss the state of my soul. What can I do for you?’

‘Couple of things. First of all …’ Fabel reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a photograph. It was the face of the murdered girl. It had been taken in the morgue and the face had been washed clean of blood and the hair brushed back; death and the sterile lighting had bleached the face into a spiritless mask. ‘I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got, other than an old fuzzy photograph of her as a teenager. Do you recognise her?’

Mahmoot shook his head. ‘Nah.’

‘Take a good look. I think she was a hooker. Maybe worked in the porn business.’

‘Not with me. But she’s … well she’s not exactly looking her best in this photograph. Difficult to tell.’ Mahmoot went to hand the photograph back.

‘Keep it,’ Fabel said, ‘ask about a bit. It’s important.’

‘What was her name?’

‘That’s the thing, Mahmoot. Other than “Monique”, which we think is just some kind of professional name, she doesn’t have a name, a permanent address or even a history before the night she was killed. Except for one thing: she had a bullet wound on her upper right thigh. We reckon she got it sometime between five and ten years ago. Does that ring a bell?’

‘Sorry, Jan … but let me sniff around and see what I can find out. How was she killed?’

‘Someone decided to carry out an anatomy lesson on her. Sliced her open and scooped out her lungs.’

‘Fuck!’ Mahmoot’s shock was genuine. Fabel could never understand how Mahmoot managed to retain his intelligence and humanity, given the work he was involved in. ‘Is this the big case the papers have been going on about?’

‘’Fraid so,’ said Fabel. ‘This guy is our number-one priority. This has got serial written all over it. I’ve got to get to him before his appetite returns.’

‘I’ll do what I can. But you know I’ve got to be careful. My social circle isn’t exactly renowned for its civic-mindedness. If they thought I was working for the cops I’d end up on a morgue slab myself.’

‘I know – and I want you to be extra careful with this one …’

‘Why?’

‘There’s a lot going on in the background I don’t like. The BND is sniffing about all of a sudden … and the guy who owned the flat was ex-Mobiles Einsatz Kommando.’

Mahmoot gave a start. ‘Hans Klugmann?’

Fabel was surprised that Mahmoot knew the name. ‘You know him?’

‘Vaguely. Our paths have crossed, so to speak.’ Mahmoot straightened his frame and took a step back from Fabel. ‘Oh no … hold on a minute … Klugmann is tied up with Ersin Ulugbay and Mehmet Yilmaz, isn’t he?’

‘We believe so.’

‘Listen Jan, I help you out whenever I can. I owe you, after all – but this is different. No way am I sniffing around Ulugbay. He’s not just the biggest Turkish Mafia godfather in Hamburg, he’s a total fucking headcase.’

‘Okay, okay, take it easy!’ Fabel held up his hands as if to stem the vehemence of Mahmoot’s refusal. ‘I don’t want you to do anything dodgy, just keep an ear to the ground. See if you can dig up anything on Klugmann. What do you know about him, anyway?’

‘Just that he’s a part-time heavy for Ersin Ulugbay and a part-time pimp for himself. He’s strictly small time, but a nasty piece of work, by all accounts. He has a girlfriend … Sonja Brun, a dancer at the Paradies-Tanzbar. Used to be a hooker, working for Klugmann, but he took her off the streets. Love before business apparently.’

‘How do you know her?’

‘
Elixir
– you know, the hardcore magazine – they got me to do a couple of shoots about six months ago. Sonja was one of the girls. Nice kid … turned my stomach to see her do the kind of things I had to photograph. Anyway, Klugmann picked her up after the shoot. He was not a happy man – got a bit heavy with Sonja on the way out. It was after that that she came off the streets and stopped doing porn shoots.’

‘What about the Paradies-Tanzbar?’

‘Basically Klugmann’s the house heavy. The Paradies is an all-up-front, no-back-room operation. It makes money the usual way: fat, drunk businessmen up from Frankfurt or Stuttgart watching the acts on stage, too pissed to realise they’re being charged thirty euros for each glass of cheap wine. But there’s no screwing on the premises. Ulugbay bought the Paradies about a year ago, at a knockdown price, apparently. Then he moved Hoffknecht in to run it for him – which was like putting a vegetarian in charge of a butcher’s shop. Hoffknecht can be trusted to leave the girls alone. Apparently his taste runs more to eighteen-year-old boys. From what I can gather, Klugmann’s job is to keep troublemakers out and if any of the “patrons” kick up a fuss about paying extortionate prices, he helps explain the bill to them, if you know what I mean.’ Mahmoot paused, shook his head and gave a wry laugh. Then his face broke into its habitual broad smile. ‘Okay … I’ll sniff about and talk to Sonja. I’ll even chat up that old faggot, Arno Hoffknecht. I’ll see what I can turn up. No promises though.’

Fabel smiled. ‘Fair enough. Thanks, Mahmoot. Here’s the usual to cover expenses …’ Fabel took a swollen envelope from his inside pocket and handed it to Mahmoot who quickly slipped it into the pocket of his leather jacket.

‘There’s one other thing about the Ulugbay mob you should know if you don’t already …’

‘Oh, what?’

‘They’re under a bit of pressure. A lot of pressure in fact. There’s talk of a new Ukrainian outfit in town …’

‘I thought there was an ongoing turf war between the Turks and the Ukrainians anyway …’

‘Not any more. This new outfit has taken total control of all the existing Ukrainian gangs. The old gangs still exist and they still have their old bosses, but they pay “taxes” to the new outfit and they’re not allowed to fight among themselves or with the Turks. The rumour is that Yilmaz, Ulugbay’s cousin, has been forced to strike a deal with the new lot. There’s talk that Yilmaz is under pressure to speed up his plan to legitimise the Ulugbay business … retire, as it were, from illegal business. Apparently Ulugbay himself is very pissed off about it all.’

‘So who runs this new outfit?’

‘That’s the thing. This new Ukrainian unit is supposed to only have about ten or twelve men with some kind of mega-bad-ass in charge.’

Fabel gazed out over the water, weighing up what Mahmoot had told him. Why the hell hadn’t Buchholz or Kolski told him all of this? Admittedly it wasn’t central to his investigation, but it could have a bearing. He turned to Mahmoot. ‘What I don’t understand is, if this new gang is so small, why don’t the other Ukrainians – or the Turks – just squash them flat?’

‘You haven’t heard the way the Ukrainians talk – or rather, don’t talk – about these guys. I mean, you know Yari Varasouv, don’t you?’ Fabel nodded: Varasouv was a gargantuan Ukrainian thug suspected of a string of gangland killings. He reputedly specialised in beating his victims to death with his massive, bare hands. The Polizei Hamburg had never been able to gather sufficient evidence to convict him. ‘Well, even Varasouv fucking
whispers
when he talks about these guys. Apparently he’s taken up early retirement at the behest of his new masters. I tell you, this new outfit scares him shitless. I mean, the Ukrainians are tough cookies – it’s almost as if it’s something more than the threat of death that is scaring them.’

‘I still don’t get what it is that is so special about these new faces.’

‘The rumour is that they are ex-Spetznaz …’

‘So what? I know that makes them extremely dangerous, but half of the Russian, Ukrainian and Baltic Mafias in Europe employ former Soviet-special-forces thugs …’

Mahmoot shook his head impatiently. ‘No, no. These guys are different. They belonged to a special field-police unit. Soviet Interior Ministry or some shit like that. Veterans of Afghanistan and Chechnya. I don’t know what they did out there, but my guess is whatever it was is scaring the crap out of everybody.’

The loudspeaker announced that the ferry was pulling in to the St Georg quay. Mahmoot grasped Fabel’s hand in a warm handshake, making sure first that no one would witness this act of friendship between himself and the policeman. ‘This is my stop. I’ll find out what I can about this girl and Klugmann. Take care of yourself, my friend.’

‘And you, Mahmoot.’

Fabel watched Mahmoot disembark. As the ferry pulled out again, Fabel noticed a pretty girl with short blonde hair who had just got off the ferry; the dying sun turned her hair an iridescent gold. He felt a pang as he gazed at her radiant youth. He turned and walked over to the other side of the ferry, and did not notice that the girl made off in the same direction as Mahmoot, twenty or so metres behind.

Wednesday 4 June, 8.45 p.m. Alsterpavilion, Hamburg.

The tiredness that had taken hold on Fabel in the afternoon now tightened its grip. When he got off the ferry he felt crumpled and grimy. The evening had defied the earlier gloom of the day and the low-slung sun now splashed the city red and copper-gold. He disembarked at the southern end of the Binnenalster and walked the short distance to the Alsterarkaden in the heart of the city. He took a table under the colonnades of the arcade and ordered a Matjes salad and a Jever beer with which to wash the herring down. The arcade ran along the side of the Alsterfleet and Fabel let his tired gaze drift idly over the water that sparkled in the evening light while swans glided effortlessly over its surface. On the other side of the Fleet lay the city’s main square from which the Rathaus jutted authoritatively up into the sky, the burnished copper clocks of its tower gleaming bright in the evening sun.

Fabel didn’t know how long she had been standing there and got a start when he heard her soft Munich accent. ‘May I?’

‘Yes … yes … of course, Frau Doktor …’ Fabel floundered for a moment with his napkin as he got to his feet and pulled out a chair.

‘I hope I’m not intruding …’ said Susanne Eckhardt.

‘No … not at all.’ He beckoned to the waitress and turned back to Susanne. ‘Can I get you something?’

Susanne turned to the waitress and ordered a glass of white wine. Fabel asked her if she wanted something to eat but she shook her head. ‘I grabbed something at the office. But please, don’t let me interrupt you.’

Fabel took another mouthful of herring. He felt strangely vulnerable, eating while she watched. She tilted her head back to let the sun warm her face; Fabel found himself again in awe of her beauty.

‘I was doing some shopping in the Arcade’ – she nodded towards the bags she had set down next to her – ‘when I saw you sitting here. You look exhausted. It’s been a long day, hasn’t it?’

‘It certainly has. Unfortunately, long days and sleepless nights tend to go with the job.’

Her wine arrived. She raised her glass. ‘
Zum Wohl!
Here’s to long days and sleepless nights.’

‘
Cheers
.’ Fabel habitually used the English expression.