Brother Grimm Page 15

  ‘Is the key in it?’ she screamed at the two still-motionless SchuPos. Before they could answer she was over at the bike and shoved aside the SchuPo at its rear. Anna rolled the bike back from the tailgate of the van, started the engine and fired off in the direction Olsen had taken.

  Fabel clutched his shoulder. The fabric of his Jaeger jacket had been ripped and the padding fluffed where the Rottweiler’s teeth had torn at it. His shoulder felt bruised, but the fabric of his polo-neck was intact and there was no trace of blood. He cast a resentful eye at the dog, which responded by straining at its chain, raising itself up and clawing the air impotently with its forelegs.

  ‘Over here!’ Fabel called to the two uniformed officers as he ran to the open door of the workshop. Werner was on the floor. He had pulled himself up into a half-sitting position and was using an already encrimsoned handkerchief in an unsuccessful attempt to staunch the flow of blood from the right side of his head. Fabel dropped down next to him and eased Werner’s hand and the blood-soaked handkerchief back from the wound. The gash was ugly, deep and raw, and the flesh of Werner’s bristle-cropped scalp was already distended by swelling. Fabel took his own unused handkerchief out and replaced Werner’s with it, pushing the injured man’s hand back to the wound. Then he placed a supporting arm around Werner’s shoulders.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  Werner’s gaze was glassy and unfocused, but he managed a small nod that did nothing to reassure Fabel. The two uniformed officers were now in the workshop. Fabel jerked his head in the general direction of the workshop shelves.

  ‘You. See if you can find a first-aid box over there.’ He looked over to the other officer. ‘You. Radio for an ambulance.’ Fabel searched the workshop floor. The wrench was lying a metre or so away from Werner. It had a heavy, clumpy head and the adjusting barrel and jaws were coated in Werner’s blood. Fabel could see that the door at the far end of the workshop was lying open. The bastard, thought Fabel. Olsen was a cool one, all right. He had casually unlocked the door in front of them all, while pretending to secure the premises. He had calculated his performance exactly, guessing that his impatient and irritated cooperation would mean that only one Bulle would come back with him to ‘set the alarm’. Then he had hit Werner with the wrench and skipped out through the back door, where the red motorcycle must have been waiting. Fabel was sure he had not seen the red bike among the others in the workshop.

  Werner groaned and moved as if trying to stand up. Fabel held him firm. ‘You stay where you are, Werner, until the ambulance gets here.’ He looked up at the uniformed officer who nodded.

  ‘It’s on its way, Herr Kriminalhauptkommissar.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to be Olsen when you catch up with him, Chef,’ Werner said. Fabel was relieved to see that Werner’s eyes were less cloudy, but they were still far from alert.

  ‘You bet,’ said Fabel. ‘No one knocks a member of my team about.’

  ‘I don’t mean that.’ Werner smiled weakly and nodded towards Fabel’s ragged shoulder. ‘Isn’t that one of your favourite jackets?’

  * * *

  The last corner had been too fast. Anna was wearing her usual leather jacket, but her legs were protected only by the denim fabric of her jeans, and her knee had all but grazed the asphalt on the last turn. She knew that if Olsen knew as much about riding motorbikes as he did about repairing them, which was likely, then she would have to go full throttle even to catch sight of him. Anna had no helmet and didn’t even have her sunglasses with her, so she had to narrow her eyes against the blast of the wind as she accelerated along the straight. She crouched down behind the racing cowl to reduce her profile and to get as much protection from the wind as possible. The road ran alongside the refinery fence and was free of traffic so she opened the throttle full. She had burst out on to Hohe-Schaar-Strasse, causing a Merc to brake and swerve. She just caught a flash of red in the far distance as Olsen thundered across the bridge over the Reiherstieg and she set off in pursuit. The BMW roared beneath her and she measured out the distance to the next bend. Anna and her brother Julius had both had motorbikes and had often gone off on weekends together: to France, down to Bavaria and even once across to England. But then, as both their careers had become more demanding, the trips had become fewer and briefer. And when Julius had got married, they stopped completely. Anna had kept her bike until a year ago, when she had traded it in for a car. Now the only reminder of those days was the oversized leather jacket she still wore almost every day to work.

  Anna slowed, easing on the brakes to get her speed down before the sharp left at the bottom of the stretch. She leaned into the bend, straightened out and let the g-force tug at her again as she accelerated. It was another long, straight expanse of road, and she saw the red smudge of Olsen’s motorcycle up ahead. She opened the throttle flat out and the BMW gave another surge. Anna’s mouth was dry and she knew that she was afraid. And she thrilled at the thought. She didn’t look at the gauge: she knew she was pushing the bike to near its 200 kilometres per hour limit and she didn’t want to know how near. She was closing the gap on Olsen: he obviously hadn’t checked in his rear-view mirror and was taking no risks. He would have expected them to give chase by car, and they would be no match for him in speed or manoeuvrability. The gap closed. Don’t check, she thought, don’t check yet, you fuck. There it was. An almost imperceptible movement of his red helmeted head and Olsen’s bike surged forward. He couldn’t pull away from Anna’s flat-out BMW, but he could maintain the gap until one of them made a mistake. It was like playing chicken, but while travelling in the same direction.

  The next bend came and Olsen took it better and faster than Anna, opening up the gap again slightly. The industrial landscape that had surrounded them evaporated and they were now surrounded by mucky-looking fields. The road had a number of twists in it and Anna found herself taking many of them on the left, thankful that nothing was coming in the opposite direction.

  Another sharp bend – this time Olsen misjudged it and only just made it, having to slow down to regain his line on the road. Anna closed the gap between them to twenty metres. Her universe had imploded until all that remained of it was the ribbon of road before her and the bike beneath her to which her body now felt indissolubly fused. It was as if her central nervous system was connected to the BMW’s electronics and every thought, every impulse, relayed itself automatically to the bike. Her focus was locked on Olsen’s red motorcycle ahead. Her concentration was total, trying to anticipate his next move.

  This total concentration meant that she could not move a hand from the bike’s steering column. She couldn’t reach for her gun; she couldn’t phone in her position. She suddenly realised that she had also lost her bearings: she had been so focused on Olsen and the road immediately in front of her that she no longer knew exactly where they were. Her knowledge of Wilhelmsburg wasn’t great at the best of times, but the excitement and challenge of pursuit had made her oblivious to passing landmarks. The flat countryside around her and the direction they had taken meant that they were somewhere in Moorwerder: the odd rural tail of Wilhelmsburg that had somehow remained invisible to developers.

  Another bend and another straight stretched ahead of them. Olsen’s bike surged as he accelerated to its maximum speed again. Anna felt her chest tighten when she realised that the open road was about to give way to a built-up area. A sign indicating that they were approaching Stillhorn flashed by and Anna realised that Olsen had looped them back round and he was heading for the A1 Autobahn. If he pushed things too far here, she would have to ease up and let him go, rather than put civilian lives at risk. But not yet.

  The traffic started to thicken and Olsen and Anna weaved between cars and trucks, many of which had to brake hard with a blast of angry horns. The town began to take a more solid form as they thrust in from the outskirts towards the centre. Anna’s heart hammered in her chest. She became aware of a police siren somewhere behind her: she didn’t know whether it was back-up
or simply the Stillhorn police responding to two motorcycles racing through the place. Whichever it was, she was glad to have some other police around for when she finally cornered Olsen. Up ahead, she saw him brake suddenly and turn, the bike almost sliding out from under him as he disappeared up a side street.

  Anna missed the turn and had to loop round in the main street, incurring even more furious horn blasts from other drivers. As she entered the side street, she saw Olsen exit at the far end and once more she opened the throttle out full. The roar of the BMW bike reverberated in the narrow street and a couple of pedestrians had to flatten themselves against the buildings as she thundered past. This was getting too dangerous: she was going to lose Olsen unless she got him before he got further into town.

  Anna had just about made it to the end of the street when a green and white patrol car, its lights flashing, turned into the street from the far end. It was clearly trying to block her exit and she gestured wildly for it to get out of the way. Instead the police car screeched to a halt and the doors flew open, a policeman rushing out on either side, their pistols drawn and aimed at Anna.

  She braked hard and turned the bike broadside-on to the car. It slid from under her and she smashed into the asphalt, feeling her thigh burn as the denim was ripped from her leg. Anna rolled several times before she came to rest against a parked car. The bike slid, showering sparks as its metal ground against the road surface, until it slammed into the front of the police car.

  A second patrol car pulled up behind Anna and the stunned SchuPos walked over to her, holstering their weapons as, still lying on the road and with one hand nursing her skinned thigh, she held up her bronze oval Kriminalpolizei shield. They helped her to her feet and one of them started to say something about not knowing she was a police officer in pursuit of a suspect.

  Anna stared hard down the empty street to where Olsen had disappeared, then at the BMW motorbike jammed under the front of the police car. In a quiet, restrained voice, she asked if the two uniformed policemen could radio the direction her suspect had taken and see if they could get a helicopter to search for Olsen. Then, taking a deep breath, she screamed, harsh and shrill at the four SchuPos:

  ‘Fucking idiots!’

  25.

  4.30 p.m., Thursday, 25 March: Stadtkrankenhaus hospital, Wilhelmsburg, Hamburg

  Maria Klee stood by the window. She was wearing a dark grey trouser suit with a black linen blouse underneath. Her blonde hair was swept back from her face and the grey eyes glittered bright and cold in the harsh hospital lighting. Maria always looked a little too elegant, in looks and build as well as in dress, to be a Kriminaloberkommissarin. Here, in this hospital room with her weary and injured colleagues, the contrast was even starker.

  ‘Well …’ she said, smiling and tapping her perfect teeth with the end of her pen, ‘all in all, I think we could say that went well. Next time you need to interview someone, I think I’d better come along.’

  Fabel laughed mirthlessly. He was slumped in the chair next to Werner’s bed. He was still wearing the Jaeger jacket with the ripped shoulder. Werner was raised into a half-lying, half-sitting position. The side of his face had puffed up grotesquely and was beginning to discolour. X-rays and scans hadn’t revealed a fracture or any swelling of his brain, but the doctors had been concerned that the bruising had perhaps obscured a hairline fracture. Werner lay in a no man’s land between consciousness and sleep: he had been given something to kill the pain and it had had an even more sedative effect than Olsen’s wrench. Anna, wearing a hospital gown and with a massive pad taped to her thigh, sat in a wheelchair on the other side of Werner’s bed.

  ‘That’s an end to my swimwear-modelling career,’ she had said as they had wheeled her in. Her high-speed chase and its spectacular climax had smeared her trademark mascara and lipstick, and one of the nurses had given her some cosmetics wipes: her face was now clear of cosmetics and her skin shone almost translucent. Fabel had never seen Anna without her make-up and was amazed at how much younger than her twenty-seven years she looked. And how pretty she was. It was a look that didn’t fit with the aggression with which she pursued her duties. An aggression that Fabel often needed to keep in check.

  Fabel pulled himself wearily from the chair and joined Maria at the window, facing Anna and Werner. It was clear that he had something to say, and as Werner was in the room in body only rather than in spirit, it was to Anna specifically, and to Maria.

  ‘I don’t need to tell you that this is not good.’ His tone suggested that he was about to say something that would not go down too well. ‘Basically, it’s down to you and me, Maria. Werner will be off for at least a month. Anna, you’re not going to be fit for duty for a week or so.’

  ‘I’m fine, Chef. I’ll be back—’

  Fabel stopped her by raising his hand. ‘You’re no use to me, Kommissarin Wolff, if you’re not fully mobile. It’ll be a week at the very least before you’re fit for duty. The doctors have said that, although you don’t feel it now, you are going to hurt like hell when all the muscles you’ve torn start to heal. Added to that, you’re lucky you don’t need a skin graft on your leg.’

  ‘All I was doing was trying to stop Olsen getting away.’

  ‘I haven’t condemned your actions, Anna.’ Fabel smiled. ‘Although Herr Brauner wasn’t too appreciative of the fact that you rammed a piece of forensic evidence under a car. The fact is, I can’t operate with just Maria working the case with me.’

  Anna’s expression darkened. She knew where this was going. ‘There are other teams in the Mordkommission we can draw people from.’

  ‘Anna, I know you were close to Paul.’ Paul Lindemann had been Anna’s partner: Paul and Anna had, in many ways, been opposites, but they had worked together as a close and highly effective partnership. ‘But I need to get the permanent team up to full strength. I’m going to recruit a new member.’

  Anna’s expression didn’t lighten. ‘And this will be a new partner for me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Maria raised her eyebrows. She and Anna both knew that Fabel was highly selective in his recruitment to the team. They had themselves been hand-picked by him. Someone had clearly impressed Fabel. ‘You’re going to ask Kommissar Klatt to join? The guy from Norderstedt police?’

  Fabel smiled as enigmatically as his exhaustion and aching shoulder would allow. ‘You’ll have to wait and see.’

  26.

  6.00 p.m., Thursday, 25 March: Wilhelmsburg, Hamburg

  If there is one sure way to motivate the police to find you, it is to seriously assault a police officer. Within fifteen minutes of Olsen coshing Werner, a warrant was in place and a Mobiles Einsatz Kommando had Olsen’s apartment, in the area of Wilhelmsburg close to the old Honigfabrik honey factory, under close surveillance. There had been no sign of life: either Olsen had headed straight back to his apartment and had holed up there, which was unlikely and would have been monumentally stupid, or he knew to stay as far away from home as possible.

  The sky hung heavy and grey over the city as Maria and Fabel pulled up directly outside Olsen’s apartment block. Fabel had changed his jacket and had taken a couple of codeine to kill the ache in his shoulder as well as the throbbing that had started in his head. As he got out of the BMW, he signalled to a large unmarked van parked halfway down the street. Five heavy-set men in jeans and sweatshirts jumped from the vehicle and moved swiftly up the street. Over their civilian clothes they wore body armour emblazoned with the word ‘POLIZEI’ and they wore balaclavas and assault helmets. Two of the men carried a short, stocky door-ram between them. Three more, similarly garbed, came running up from a car parked fifty metres or so in the other direction. The MEK commander stopped as he came alongside Fabel, who nodded and said:

  ‘Second floor – 2b. Do your thing …’

  From the street, Fabel and Maria heard the loud thud as the MEK men burst Olsen’s door in with the ram. There was some shouting, then silence. A couple of minutes later the
MEK commander emerged from the apartment-block entrance door, carrying his helmet and balaclava in one hand, his SIG-Sauer automatic in his other. He smiled emptily.

  ‘No one home,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks, Herr Oberkommissar.’ Fabel turned to Maria. ‘Shall we?’

  The apartment door was still on its hinges, but the frame around the lock was shattered into long, sharp splinters. Fabel and Maria pulled on white latex gloves before entering. It was a reasonably large apartment: a spacious living room, three bedrooms, large dining kitchen and bathroom. The furniture was old and heavy, but Fabel noticed how tidy and clean the apartment was. The TV in the living room was elderly, but Olsen had pushed the boat out on his stereo equipment. A huge Bang & Olufsen system dominated one wall. The size and wattage of the speakers seemed to be out of proportion with the room, but somehow Fabel couldn’t imagine any of the neighbours complaining to Olsen about the noise. There was a CD rack fixed to the wall next to the stereo, and Fabel noticed that Olsen had labelled his CD collection with the same systematic care as he had the spares store at the garage. He took a closer look at Olsen’s music collection: Rammstein, Die toten Hosen, Marilyn Manson. Not the kind of stuff you played softly in the background for dinner guests.

  Holger Brauner, the SpuSi forensic team leader, knocked on the shattered door frame behind Fabel.

  ‘Private party? Or can anyone come in?’ He nodded to the CD Fabel had in his hand. ‘Rammstein? I wouldn’t have thought it was your kind of thing.’

  Fabel laughed and replaced the CD in the rack. ‘I was just seeing if he had any James Last. Can’t beat a bit of Hansi after a tough day.’

  ‘And you’ve had quite a day, from what I’ve heard … Is it true you’re applying for a transfer to the dog-handling unit?’