JF02 - Brother Grimm (30 page)

‘Who was the father of the child?’

‘No one. That was his sin, to be a no one. So
Margarethe made sure he disappeared from the scene. That, more than anything, is why I called her my “broken princess”. An hour-long medical procedure and a lifelong guilt.’ Schnauber took another swig. His eyes reddened as if stung, but not by the malt. ‘Do you know what makes me more sad than anything else, Herr Kriminalhauptkommissar? That, when this monster murdered Laura, she probably felt she deserved it.’

Henk Hermann sat back in the chair. He had listened to Anna’s description of the operation in which Paul Lindemann had been killed, in which Maria had been stabbed, in which Anna herself had come close to losing her life.

‘Christ, that must have been tough. I see what you mean. I knew about it, obviously. But not all the details. I see what you mean about it shaking the team up. Affecting how you operate, I mean.’

‘I know it has really got to Fabel. Did you see the look on his face after Werner got clobbered by Olsen? He hasn’t let us go into any kind of hazardous situation ahead of an MEK unit. I suppose he needs … I suppose
we
need to get our confidence back a bit.’

There was an awkward silence. It was as if something had occurred to Henk but he had then thought better of it.

‘What is it?’ asked Anna. ‘Go on. What is it you want to ask?’

‘It’s a personal thing. I hope you don’t mind?’

Anna made an intrigued face. ‘Okay …’

‘It’s just that I saw your necklace. The chain you wear.’

The smile faded from Anna’s lips but her expression remained relaxed. She fished out the Star of David from her T-shirt. ‘What … this? Does it bother you?’

‘No … God, no …’ Henk suddenly looked flustered. ‘It’s just that I was curious. I heard you spent time in Israel. In the army. And you came back.’

‘Is that so surprising? I’m German. Hamburg is my home town. It’s where I belong.’ She leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. ‘Don’t tell anyone … but there are five thousand of us in Hamburg.’

Henk looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’

‘Why not ask? Do you find it strange that I choose to live here?’

‘Well. With such a terrible history. I mean, I wouldn’t blame you for not wanting to live in Germany.’

‘Like I said, I’m a German first and foremost. Then I’m Jewish.’ Anna paused. ‘Do you know that, right up until the Nazis took power, Hamburg was one of the least anti-Semitic cities in Europe? All over Europe Jews were restricted in what they could do for a living; their voting rights were limited too. But not in the Hanseatic City of Hamburg. That’s why, right up until the Nazis, Hamburg had the biggest Jewish community in Germany: we made up five per cent of the population. Even during the “dark chapter” my grandparents were hidden by friends in Hamburg. That took a lot of courage. More courage, if I’m honest, than I think I would have had. Anyway, today it’s a city in which I can feel comfortable. At home. I’m not a desert flower, Henk. I need to be rained on regularly.’

‘I don’t know if I could be so forgiving …’

‘It’s not about forgiveness, Henk. It’s about vigilance. I wasn’t part of what happened under the Nazis. Nor were you. Nor was anyone our age. But I’ll never forget that it did happen.’ She paused, turning her glass idly in her hands. Then she gave a small laugh. ‘Anyway, I’m not that forgiving. I dare say you’ve heard that I’ve run into the odd bit of …
controversy
, I suppose you’d call it.’

‘I heard,’ Henk laughed. ‘Something about a Rechtsradikale skinhead and some bruised testicles?’

‘When I see some of these sad wankers with their skinheads and green bomber jackets, I tend to get a little heated, shall we say. Like I said, I stay vigilant. In the meantime, my brother Julius is a major figure in the Hamburg Jewish community. He’s a civic lawyer and a leading member of the German-Jewish Society. And he works part-time at the Talmud-Tora-Realschule in the Grindelviertel. Julius believes in building cultural bridges. I believe in watching my back.’

‘It sounds like you think your brother’s approach is wrong.’

‘We don’t need cultural bridges. My culture is German. My parents, my grandparents and their parents … their culture was German. We’re not different. If I think of myself as different – if you treat me as different – then Hitler won. I have an extra part to my heritage, that’s all. I’m proud of that heritage. I’m proud to be Jewish. But everything that defines me is here … is German.’

Henk ordered more drinks and they sat and let their talk wander freely. Anna found out that Henk had two sisters and one brother, that he had been born in Cuxhaven, but that when he was still a child
his family had moved to Marmstorf, where his father had been a butcher.

‘The Metzgerei Hermann … the best butcher in south Hamburg,’ Henk said. He had tried to affect a mock-proud tone, but Anna smiled as Henk’s genuine pride got in the way. ‘Like most of the fringes of Hamburg, Marmstorf feels more like a village than a Stadtteil. I don’t know if you know it … the centre is full of old Fachwerk half-timbered houses, that kind of thing.’ Henk suddenly looked sad. ‘I still feel bad that I didn’t take over my father’s butcher’s business. My other brother is at the Universität Hamburg. Training to become a doctor. My sisters have no interest in it either: one’s an accountant and the other lives with her husband and kids outside Köln. My father is still running the business, but he’s too old now. I guess he just keeps hoping that I’ll give up the police and take it on.’

‘I take it there’s no chance of that.’

‘None, I’m afraid. I wanted to be a policeman since I was a kid. It was just one of these things you know about yourself.’ He paused. ‘So. What do you think? Do I pass?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, this is what this is all about, isn’t it? To see if you can work with me?’

Anna grinned. ‘You’ll do … But actually that wasn’t the intention. It’s just that we’ll be working together and I know that I haven’t been, well, very welcoming. I’m sorry. But I think you can understand that things are still a little bit raw. After Paul, I mean. Anyway …’ She raised her glass. ‘Welcome to the Mordkommission …’

The last time he had worked on him, about a year before, Max had become accustomed to his customer’s long silences. Max had taken them as a sign of his interest, fascination even, in what Max had to say about his craft.

But tonight the huge man had not spoken since he had come in through the door and now he simply stood, wordlessly, in the middle of Max’s studio. Dominating it. Filling it. And all that could be heard was the huge man’s breathing. Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.

‘Is there something wrong? Are you okay?’ Max asked.

Another silence seemed to stretch for ever until, at last, the huge man spoke. ‘When you worked on me the last time I asked you to keep no record of it. Or tell anyone about it. I paid you extra for that. Did you do as I asked?’

‘Yes, I did. I did … and if anyone has told you different it’s a lie!’ protested Max. He wished that the big guy would sit down. Standing this close to him, in the tight confines of the studio, Max was getting a painful neck looking up at him. The big
man held up a hand. He removed his coat and the shirt underneath, exposing to Max his own handiwork. His vast, muscled torso was covered with words, with sentences, with entire stories, all tattooed into his flesh in black, old-Gothic script. The slightest movement, a twitch of a muscle, and the words writhed, as if themselves alive.

‘Is that the truth? No one knows about the work you did on me?’

‘No one. I swear. It’s kinda like a doctor-patient thing … you say you want it kept quiet, then I keep it quiet. I wish I
could
talk about it, though. It’s the best fuckin’ work I ever did. And I’m not just saying that because you’re the customer.’

The big man fell silent again. This time his silence was unbroken except by the sound of his breathing that again filled the tiny studio. Deep-sounding, resonant breaths from that cavernous barrel of a chest. His breathing came faster.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ asked Max, his voice now high with something that lay between unease and outright fear.

Again no answer. The big man reached down to his coat and took something from one of the pockets. It was a child’s tiny rubber mask. A wolf mask. He pulled it across his big face and the lupine features stretched and distorted.

‘What’s with the comedy mask?’ Max asked, but his mouth was dry and his voice sounded strange. He was aware of his heart hammering in his chest. ‘Look. I’m really busy. I stayed open just for you. Now, if you want something …’ He did his best to squeeze some authority into his stretched, frightened tone.

‘Clever Hans …’ The big man smiled and tilted
his head to one side. It was a childish posture that looked bizarre, surreal, on a man of his stature. The stretching of his neck rippled the words that looped around the base of his throat.

‘What? My name isn’t Hans. You know that. It’s Max …’

‘Clever Hans …’ repeated the big man, tilting his head the other way.

‘Max – I’m Max. Look, big guy, I don’t know what you’re on. You take a little something tonight? I think you’d better come back when –’

The big man stepped forward and slammed both hands simultaneously on either side of Max’s head, clamping it and squeezing hard.

‘Oh …’ he said. ‘Clever Hans, Clever Hans …’

‘My name isn’t Hans! My name isn’t Hans!’ Max was screaming now. His entire world had filled with a white, electric fear. ‘I’m Max! Remember me? Max! The tattoo guy!’

Behind the stretched, grotesque mask, the huge features of the big man’s face suddenly melted into sadness and his tone was pleading, plaintive. ‘Clever Hans, Clever Hans … why don’t you cast friendly eyes on her?’

Max felt his cheeks being pushed into his teeth. The vice that closed on his head crushed and twisted his features.

‘Clever Hans, Clever Hans … why don’t you cast friendly eyes on her?’

Max’s scream became a high-pitched animal shriek as his attacker’s huge thumbs pressed into the flesh beneath his eyebrows, just above the bulge of his eyelids. The pressure increased and became pain of incredible intensity. The thumbs pushed deeper. Into the sockets. Max’s shriek became a blubbering gurgle
as his eyes were forced from his head and the gorge rose in his throat.

Now blind, Max hung limply in the inescapable grip of his immensely strong assailant. His universe now flashed and sparked, and he even thought he could again see the outline of his attacker, as if etched in neon, as his optic nerves and brain tried to make sense of the sudden absence of his eyes. Then darkness. The vice grip was removed. But before Max could slump to the floor, he felt a single hand grab him by the hair and yank him upright. There was a moment of silence in Max’s darkness. Again all he could hear was the even, deep, resonant breathing of the giant who had blinded him. Then he heard the sound of metal being drawn from something. As if from a leather sheath.

Max gave a little jump of surprise as he felt the blow across his neck and throat. A tiny sliver of time, in which he puzzled why the man hadn’t hit him harder, stretched into an infinity. By the time he realised that his throat had been slashed and the warmth he felt splashing spasmodically on to his shoulder and chest was his blood, Max was already slipping into death.

The last thing he heard was the bizarre mix of the deep, resonant voice and childlike tone of his attacker.

‘Clever Hans, Clever Hans … why don’t you cast friendly eyes upon her?’

What was that smell? It was an unclean smell. Faint, diffuse and impossible to identify, but unpleasant. Pungent. It was like the odour he would sometimes smell in his home. But it was here too, as if it were following him. Haunting him.

Bernd had taken the S-Bahn. It was difficult to park in the Kiez and he enjoyed the anonymity of public transport whenever he went off on one of his excursions. Anyway, he would probably have a few drinks. Afterwards.

A young woman sat opposite him on the S-Bahn train. She was in her early twenties, with blonde hair cut boyishly short and with a streak of pink through it. Her coat was Afghan style and mid-calf length, but lay open. Her figure was full, verging on plump, and her T-shirt was pulled tight across her breasts. He focused on the band of pale, smooth skin that lay exposed below the bottom of her T-shirt and the low waistband of her hipster jeans. The bared flesh was punctuated by the dimple of her pierced and studded navel.

Bernd gazed at her, at her youth and her ripeness, and felt himself stiffen. Again. The girl looked over and their eyes met. He smiled what he had intended
to be a mischevious smile but it formed on his lips as nothing short of a leer. The girl mimed a nauseated shudder, pulled her coat closed and placed her shoulder bag on her lap. He shrugged but kept his smile in place. After a few minutes in which he sought with his eyes to trace out again the delightful but now concealed curves of her young body, the S-Bahn stopped at the next station, Königstrasse. The girl rose to her feet as the automatic doors opened. As she did so she glared at him.