JF02 - Brother Grimm (29 page)

‘You know, honey. We could come to an arrangement about payment. I give great head, you know …’

Max looked up at her face. She couldn’t have been much more than nineteen. ‘No, thanks,’ he said, turning back to his work. ‘If you don’t mind I’ll just stick with the cash.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘You don’t know what you’re missin’.’

Max took a long, deep breath after the girl left, and tried to put the image of her pussy from his mind. His customer would be here soon and Max felt a thrill of anticipation: this guy was a connoisseur. Max considered the work he had done on him to have been his masterpiece. But the customer had refused when Max had asked to take a photograph
of it. And Max hadn’t argued. This guy was huge. Massive. And you wouldn’t want to argue with him. But his size was a bonus for Max. It meant more skin surface. And that, in turn, meant that this guy had provided the biggest canvas Max had ever worked on.

It had taken weeks, months to complete the work. The pain his customer would have endured must have been incredible – to have so much skin surface raw and inflamed. Yet he would come back, one day each week, insisting that Max close his shop and work on him alone, hour after hour. And this customer had a real appreciation of what Max was all about. It had involved research. Study. Preparation. While he worked, Max would talk to his customer about the nobility of his art, about how he had been a pale, small, sickly child with a talent for art; about how no one had paid much attention to him. Max had explained to his customer how, at twelve, he had set about, with a needle and some Indian ink, to create his first tattoo. On himself. He had explained how he had first read up on
Moko
, the tattoo craft of the Maoris of New Zealand. The Maoris would lie, trance-like, for hours, while the tribal tattooist, the
Tohunga
, who enjoyed the same status as a medicine man, would tap-tap away with his needle and tiny wooden mallet. The
Tohungas
were, for Max, at the apex of the tattooist’s art: they were as much sculptors as painters, not just pigmenting skin but reshaping it, making their art three-dimensional by actually crafting folds and ridges into the skin. And each
Moko
was unique, specially conceived and singularly crafted for its wearer.

At ten p.m. sharp the studio buzzer went. Max
unlocked and swung open the door to reveal the dark, towering shape of a huge man. He filled the doorway, looming above Max before slipping silently past him and into the studio.

‘It’s really good to see you again,’ said Max. ‘It was an honour to work on you … What can I do for you tonight?’

Henk Hermann had eagerly accepted Anna’s invitation to go out for a drink after work, but there had been an element of suspicion in his eyes.

‘Don’t worry,’ Anna had said. ‘I won’t rape you. But leave your car at the Präsidium.’

Henk Hermann had looked even more uneasy when Anna had arranged for a taxi to take them into the Kiez, dropping them at the Weisse Maus pub. It was usually thronging with customers, but at this time on a mid-week evening they had no trouble finding a table. Anna ordered a rye-and-dry and looked across at Henk.

‘Beer?’

Henk held up his hands. ‘I better stick with –’

‘A rye-and-dry and a beer, then,’ she said to the waiter.

Hermann laughed. He looked at the petite, pretty girl across the table from him: she could have been almost anything other than a policewoman. She had large dark eyes that were accented by the slightly overdone eyeshadow. Her full, heart-shaped lips were lipsticked fire-truck red. Her black hair was short and gelled almost spiky. The look, combined with
her customary punk-chic ensemble of T-shirt, jeans and oversized leather jacket seemed to have been engineered to make her look tough. It failed: the elements simply combined and conspired to accentuate her girlish femininity. But, Henk had heard, she was tough. Really tough.

Anna made half-hearted small talk while they waited for their drinks: she asked Henk what he thought of the Mordkommission, how different it was to his SchuPo duties, and other uninspired, idle questions. Their drinks arrived.

‘You don’t have to do this, you know.’ Henk took a sip of his beer.

‘What do you mean?’ Anna arched her dark eyebrows and when she did her face took on a schoolgirl innocence.

‘I know you resent me … well, no, not resent, that’s too strong … I know that you don’t totally approve of Herr Fabel taking me on to the team.’

‘Crap,’ said Anna. She slipped off her leather jacket and placed it on the back of her chair. As she did so, her neck chain slipped out from under her T-shirt. She sat back in the chair, slipping the chain back under her shirt. ‘He’s the boss. He knows what he’s doing. If he says you’re up to the job, that’s good enough for me.’

‘But you’re not happy about it.’

Anna sighed. She took a large sip of her bourbon and ginger ale. ‘I’m sorry, Henk. I know that I haven’t exactly rolled out the red carpet for you. It’s just … Well, it’s just that I had a tough time coming to terms with Paul’s death. I take it Fabel told you all about that?’

Henk nodded.

‘Well, I know we need someone to take his place.
But not take his place, if you know what I mean.’

‘I do. I really do,’ said Henk. ‘But, to be honest, it’s not my problem. It’s a history I’m not part of. You have to accept that I have come into the team to do the best I can. I didn’t know Paul Lindemann and I wasn’t part of that investigation.’

Anna took another sip of her drink and wrinkled her nose as it went down. ‘No. You’re wrong. You
are
part of that history. If you’re part of the team, you’re part of what has happened to the team. And that night out there in the Altes Land, we all changed. Me, Maria – God knows, Maria changed out there – even Werner and Fabel. And we lost one of ours. We’re still all dealing with that.’

‘Okay.’ Henk leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. ‘Tell me about it.’

Fabel didn’t have to search for Heinz Schnauber’s apartment. He knew Eppendorf very well: the Institut für Rechtsmedizin was located at the Universitätklinikum Hamburg-Eppendorf, and Schnauber’s apartment was in one of the elegant nineteenth-century Wohnhäuser on the classy Eppendorfer Landstrasse.

Schnauber had been expecting him, but Fabel still held up his oval KriPo shield and ID when Schnauber came to the door. He was in his mid-fifties, not too tall, and slim without being slight. He showed Fabel into an elegant drawing room. The furnishings were in keeping with the period of the building, but were infinitely more comfortable than those in Vera Schiller’s Hausbruch mansion. Fabel never knew how to respond to gay men. He liked to think of himself as a sophisticated, modern and rational man, and he certainly had nothing against gays, but his Lutheran Frisian upbringing made him uncertain and awkward in their company. He became intensely annoyed with his own provincialism, especially when he noted that he had felt mild surprise that Schnauber was perfectly masculine in manner and speech. One
thing that Fabel did notice was the intense pain in Schnauber’s eyes when he spoke about Laura von Klosterstadt. Whether Schnauber was gay or not, he clearly loved Laura. An almost paternal love.

‘She was my princess,’ Schnauber explained. ‘That was my name for her: “my little broken princess”. I can honestly say that she was the nearest thing to a daughter to me.’

‘Why “broken”?’

Schnauber smiled bitterly. ‘I’m sure you come across all kinds of dysfunctional families, Herr Kriminalhauptkommissar. In your line of work, I mean. Junkie parents, criminal kids, abuse, that kind of thing. But there are families that are adept at keeping their dysfunctionality under wraps. Their skeletons well and truly locked up in the cupboards. Well, when you have as much money and influence as the von Klosterstadts, you can afford a lot of cupboards.’

Schnauber sat on the sofa and invited Fabel to sit by indicating a large high-backed leather armchair.

‘I wanted to ask you about the party,’ said Fabel. ‘Fräulein von Klosterstadt’s birthday party, I mean. Did anything out of the ordinary happen? Or were there any gatecrashers?’

Schnauber laughed. ‘There are no gatecrashers at any of my functions, Herr Fabel.’ He emphasised the
no
. ‘And no, as far as I’m aware, nothing unusual or unpleasant happened. There was the predictable ice between Laura and her mother. And Hubert, as usual, was being a supercilious little shit. But other than that, the party went like a dream. We had a bunch of Americans over, an exclusive yachting-wear company from New England. They were interested in signing Laura up as their “face” – the
Amis
love her aristocratic European looks.’ The sadness in
Schnauber’s expression deepened. ‘Poor Laura, every birthday party she had as a child was engineered to fit with her mother’s social agenda. Then, as an adult, they were excuses to promote her to potential clients. I felt rotten about that. But it was my job, as her agent, to promote her as widely and effectively as I could.’ His eyes locked with Fabel’s. There was an earnestness in the look, as if it were important to him that Fabel believed him. ‘I did everything I could to make those parties more than dressed-up promos, you know. I used to buy her little surprise presents for her birthday, get her a special cake, that kind of thing. I really did try to make the parties fun for her.’

‘I know. Herr Schnauber. I understand.’ Fabel smiled. He allowed Schnauber a moment with his thoughts before asking his next question. ‘You said the von Klosterstadts had lots of skeletons in the cupboard. What kind of skeletons? Was there something going on in Laura’s family?’

Schnauber walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a single malt with what Fabel considered to be a heavy hand. He tilted the bottle in Fabel’s direction.

‘No, thanks … Not when I’m on duty.’

Schnauber sat down again. He slugged down a considerable portion of the over-large Scotch. ‘You met the parents? And Hubert?’

‘Yes,’ said Fabel. ‘I did.’

‘The father’s a prick. He’s as impoverished in brains as he’s rich in cash. And he’s indiscreet. He has been screwing his way through the secretarial workforce of Hamburg for the last fifteen years. Mind you, I can understand that when you look at Margarethe, his wife.’

Fabel looked confused. ‘I would have said she was a very attractive woman. Clearly a beauty in her time, just as Laura was in hers.’

Schnauber gave a knowing smile. ‘There are times – most of the time, actually – when I am so damned grateful I’m gay. For a start it makes me immune to Margarethe’s witchcraft. But I can see she’s bewitched you already, Herr Fabel. Don’t for a minute think that all that sexual chemistry Margarethe exudes makes her a satisfying fuck. You can’t fuck her if you’ve got no balls and, all her life, Margarethe has specialised in emasculating men. That’s why I think Laura’s father dips his wick anywhere he gets a chance. Just to prove it’s still there.’ He took another gulp and emptied his glass. ‘But that’s not why I hate Margarethe von Klosterstadt. The reason I despise her is for the way she treated Laura. It was like she locked her up and starved her – starved her of love, of affection, of the thousand little things that bind mother and daughter.’

Fabel nodded pensively. None of this was of direct use to the investigation, but the whisky and his grief had loosened Schnauber’s rage at an unfair death which obviously had ended an unfair and unhappy life. Now the empty room and the empty view from the pool room started to make sense. Schnauber got up, went over to the cabinet once more and poured himself another drink. He paused for a moment, bottle suspended in one hand, glass in the other, and looked out of his window, along the Eppendorfer Landstrasse.

‘Sometimes I hate this city. Sometimes I hate being a North bloody German, with all of our tight-assed hang-ups and guilt trips. Guilt is a terrible, terrible thing, don’t you think?’

‘I suppose so,’ Fabel said. Schnauber wore a look that Fabel had seen so many times before in his career: that fidgety indecisiveness of someone loitering on the threshold of disclosing a confidence. Fabel let the silence lie, allowing Schnauber the time to decide to commit himself.

Schnauber turned from the window to face Fabel. ‘You’ll see it all the time, I suppose. As a policeman, I mean. I bet there are people out there who commit the most terrible crimes – murder, rape, child abuse – and who yet will have no sense of guilt.’

‘Unfortunately, yes, there are.’

‘That’s what pisses me off: that without a sense of guilt there is no punishment. Like some of these old Nazi bastards who refuse to see the wrong in what they did, while the next generation is crippled by guilt for something that happened before they were born. But then there’s the other side of the coin.’ Schnauber sat down on the couch again. ‘Those who do things that most of us would consider venial sins – trivial, even – yet who are haunted by guilt for the rest of their lives.’

Fabel leaned forward in his chair. ‘Was Laura haunted?’

‘By one of the many skeletons in the von Klosterstadt cupboards, yes. An abortion. Years ago. She was little more than a child herself. No one knows. It was clamped down on with a security that would make the Federal Chancellery look like open house. Margarethe arranged everything and made sure that it remained a secret. But Laura told me. It took her years before she did, and she broke her little heart when she did.’