The Ghosts of Altona (31 page)

‘What is this thing you’ve got about Frankfurt, Anna?’

‘Haven’t you
ever
been there?’ She turned and looked out of the passenger window at the passing trees and the sparkle of water between them. ‘They make Parisians seem warm and welcoming. You’d make more eye contact at an Asperger’s self-help meeting.’

‘Anyway,’ said Fabel. ‘Being an arsehole doesn’t diminish your abilities. Berger’s very capable.’

‘You’re more than his equal.’

‘As an officer or an arsehole?’

‘The former always, the latter occasionally. You haven’t answered my question: will you take it?’

‘Ah, here we are . . .’ said Fabel in a ‘saved-by-the-bell’ manner. He turned into the drive that led to a long, low, one-and-a-half storey thatch-roofed
Reetdachhaus
of the typical, traditional rural North German style.

‘Very nice,’ said Fabel as they pulled up on the drive outside the house, which was surrounded by a large, well-tended garden and a wall of trees. ‘Maybe I should have stuck with the academic world after all.’

A man in camel-coloured moleskin trousers, a dark green sweater and checked shirt appeared at the door and waited for them. From first impressions, Fabel estimated that Professor Thorsten Rohde, although having retired from the Uni Hamburg the year before, could only have been in his late fifties or early sixties. His hair was grey-blond and combed back from a broad-browed, long face and an aquiline nose that gave him the look of an aristocrat rather than an academic.

‘Thanks for agreeing to meet with us,’ said Fabel after he had introduced Anna and they shook hands. ‘And sorry for the intrusion.’

‘Not at all – I welcome the company. My wife has gone to . . .’ He paused, frowning. ‘She’s gone out but she’ll be back soon. Anyway, I hope I can help, Herr Fabel. This is about Monika Krone? I heard that they discovered her body. After all this time. It’s tragic.’

‘That it is, Herr Professor,’ said Fabel. ‘But there are some other things, possible connections, we are looking at.’

‘Oh, sorry . . .’ said Rohde, suddenly aware they were all still standing at the threshold. ‘Please come in.’

The interior of the cottage was surprisingly modern, the decor bright to make the most of the light from the small, thatch-shadowed windows. The living room was large and open plan to the kitchen, whitewashed wooden columns breaking up the space. Fabel noticed a large American-style refrigerator in the kitchen, covered with more than a dozen handwritten yellow and orange sticker notes.

Rohde invited them to sit on a soft-toned cambric-covered sofa. A beech coffee table in front of them was piled with books, most of which looked like academic publications and all of which seemed to deal with Gothic literature or studies. Fabel noticed Rohde’s was the author name on several. From the cover of one Boris Karloff, made up as Frankenstein’s monster, stared obliquely and menacingly at them.

‘May I offer you tea . . . coffee?’ said Rohde.

‘No,’ said Fabel, once they were all seated. ‘But thank you. We won’t take up too much of your time, Herr Professor. We’re looking into a specific group of friends, fellow students who shared an interest in Gothic literature and attended your extra-curricular lectures on Gothic fiction. They were known informally by other students as the “Gothic set”.’

Rohde laughed. ‘Everyone I come into contact with can be called that. And the students who went out of their way to attend my elective lectures all had a specific interest in the Gothic.’

‘But this would be a group including Monika Krone,’ said Anna. ‘You remember Monika Krone?’

‘Of course I remember her. And what happened to her. The police came to talk to me back then as well. In any case, Monika Krone was not the kind of student – or woman – one forgets.’ Rohde suddenly seemed to remember something and made to stand up. ‘Where are my manners? Can I offer you something – tea or coffee?’

‘You already—’

‘No thanks, Herr Professor . . .’ Fabel cut Anna off. Rohde’s early retirement and the score of handwritten notes on the refrigerator suddenly made sense. ‘We won’t keep you long. Do you remember the crowd Monika went around with?’

‘Some more than others. They were more deeply into the Gothic than the rest. By that I mean not just the literature, but the history, the leading figures, the architecture, the philosophy, the culture – for many that’s what the Gothic is: not just a literary movement, a culture. It’s a way of seeing life.’

‘Seems to me more like a way of seeing death – but would you say Monika and her friends were particularly into Gothic culture?’

‘I wouldn’t say all. Some of them – a hard core, if you like, including Monika – certainly took it very seriously indeed. Like the others, they had a very deep intellectual interest in the movement, the literature, but for them it went beyond that and into their way of looking at life. Or living it.’

‘So this hard core comprised mainly literature students?’

‘Actually, no. Not exclusively. Obviously, the majority of those who came to my lectures were literature students – there were those who were studying German Lit and were interested in the German Schauerroman development of Gothic fiction, then there were my own Gothic Studies students and students of English, who were looking to boost their understanding of the genre. But I got students from all disciplines and not just the liberal arts – including a lot of science and medical students.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought that it would have attracted many from the sciences.’

‘That’s where you’d be wrong. Gothic fiction is inseparably connected to the history of science. Mary Shelley’s
Frankenstein
is a science-fiction novel as much as anything else. You have to remember that Victor Frankenstein animated his monster by using electricity, which in Shelley’s time was the biggest area of scientific study and moving from the theoretical to the practical realm. Just as today there are writers speculating about the moral and existential threats posed by computing and artificial intelligence, in Mary Shelley’s day people had the same worries about the magic of electricity. It’s ironic that the real Castle Frankenstein, which inspired her to use the name, sits above Darmstadt, which later would become the very first city to have a faculty of electrical engineering at its university. You could also say
Frankenstein
was the first novel to raise bio-ethical issues. So it’s no surprise that there were science students interested in the Gothic. But to answer your question, the group that seemed to be associated with Monika came from an unusually broad range of disciplines.’

‘There was a medical student in particular,’ said Fabel. ‘A Dane by the name of Paul Mortensen – do you remember him?’

Rohde pursed his lips as he thought. ‘Sorry, can’t say I do.’

‘How well did you know Monika Krone?’ asked Anna.

‘Well. Or at least as well as she would allow anyone to get to know her. I was her tutor and had her in my formal classes as well as her having an almost hundred per cent attendance at the elective lectures. As an educator, the names and faces of most of your students over the years fade into the background, but there are the few bright stars – the ones who stand out and whom you remember. Monika was one such star.’

‘Professor Rohde . . .’ Fabel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘I hope you understand that I have to ask you this: were you ever in any kind of intimate relationship with Monika Krone?’

Rohde smiled, a little sadly and resignedly. ‘I knew you would ask me that. Yes, I had an intimate relationship with her. But not in the way you mean, not sexual or romantic. And it’s very difficult to put into words . . .’ Rohde thought for a moment, drawing a breath. ‘Listen, Herr Fabel, I have devoted my life to studying and teaching the Gothic movement. Every aspect of it. I want you to imagine that I am an archaeologist, dealing with dusty artefacts and obsessed with, say, the Mycenaeans. Imagine what it would be like for that archaeologist to meet, not buried bones, but a living, breathing person who had lived through that time, who had known Agamemnon, who could give a first-person perspective. It was like that with Monika. I have never encountered another student, or anyone else, who so perfectly understood the Gothic, who so perfectly
embodied
the Gothic. You could say that I learned more from her than she from me.’

‘If you don’t mind me saying, it sounds like you were a little in love with her.’

‘Perhaps. More fascinated, more in awe of her. And, truth be told, a little afraid of her.’

‘Afraid?’

‘Monika Krone had a presence – not just physical, but intellectual and emotional – that is very hard to describe. I said she embodied the Gothic for me, well, she did. Hers was a very dark presence.’

They talked about Monika for a while longer, Rohde explaining more about the personality of his long-dead student. After a while, they moved on to the other members of the Gothic set.

‘I do remember Werner Hensler was involved,’ said Rohde. ‘He most certainly was someone who was in love with Monika. I was shocked to read about his death. Werner was a pleasure to teach and he had a real passion for Gothic literature – Poe, in particular. But he made the fatal mistake of comparing himself to his hero – measuring his writing against Poe’s – which was always going to lead him to disappointment. I read one of his novels not that long ago. It was tripe. I got the feeling that he had sold out believing he was capable of less than he really was.’

‘What about Tobias Albrecht, the architect?’

‘I remember there was an architecture student, but can’t recall the name. He was what people used to call “devilishly handsome” and clearly saw himself as some kind of Byronesque character – you know
mad, bad and dangerous to know
.’ Rohde used the expression in English. ‘I got the impression his involvement was more about the usual student search for a style or an identity, rather than any real interest in the Gothic form.’

‘Was he involved with Monika?’

Rohde laughed. ‘Of course he was. They all were at one time or another, I think. And those that weren’t desperately wanted to be. Like I say, Monika was a dark presence – but a dark presence that formed the heart of the group. I actually wonder if some of them really were that interested in Gothic literature or were simply trying to ingratiate themselves with Monika.’

‘Do you remember the painter Detlev Traxinger being part of the set?’

‘Yes I do.’ Rohde frowned, suddenly perturbed. ‘I forget . . . didn’t I read something about his death too?’

‘I’m afraid you did.’

‘So
that’s
what this is all about. Not just Monika?’

‘We’re investigating possible connections, yes. That’s why it’s important that you try to remember anyone else in particular that was part of that set.’

Rohde laughed, bitterly. ‘I have no problem remembering stuff from back then. It’s this morning, yesterday or last week I struggle with. There was someone else . . .’ He frowned. ‘It’ll come to me – eventually.’

‘Was this someone who was involved with Monika?’

‘No . . . damn it, I wish I could remember his name. He was one of those poor peripheral people. You know, the hangers-on and wannabes whom no one really notices. That’s probably why I can’t remember too much about him. Maybe he was the Danish medical student you mentioned.’

‘I understand that Gothic literature is a serious subject – academically, I mean,’ said Fabel. ‘But what I can’t get my head around is why a group of young people would become so obsessed with it. I mean, especially Monika Krone, Traxinger, Hensler and Albrecht. They were all in their early- to mid-twenties. Why should the literature of death and darkness be so appealing to such young people with such bright futures?’

‘That’s where you’ve got it wrong, Herr Fabel. The Gothic belongs to the young and vital. It’s all around us in teenage culture – Goth fashions, death-metal music . . . Teenagers and young people flooding to watch movies and television series about vampires and zombies.’

‘But we’re not talking about teenagers,’ said Anna. ‘We’re talking about serious students in their middle twenties.’

‘Gothic literature is and always has been the literature of youth. Mary Shelley was still a teenager, only nineteen, when she wrote
Frankenstein
. Her husband, the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, who was her model for Victor Frankenstein, sang loud and sweet but was silenced when he was only twenty-nine. Polidori, who wrote the first real vampire story, died when he was twenty-five. Even Byron, who blazed so bright that he scorched all who got too close, eventually burned out at only thirty-six. The Romantic and Gothic movements speak with the irrepressible and vibrant nihilism of youth.’

‘You don’t think a youthful obsession with death is unhealthy?’ asked Anna.

Rohde smiled. ‘When you’re young, your vigour allows you to see Death – with a capital “D” – as a concept, as something that exists in its own right. Something you can romanticize about . . . even personify. But as you get older, death becomes a much more lowercase affair. You begin to realize that just like the dark doesn’t exist but is merely the absence of light, death doesn’t exist and is simply the absence of life, and that makes it all the more terrifying. It is no longer something you conceptualize, no longer a presence but an absence. It becomes an event. An endpoint just around the corner. Death becomes a hell of a lot less romantic the closer you get to it.’ He turned to Fabel. ‘I’m sure, with your experience, you’ll agree.’

‘My experience?’ Fabel was taken aback for a moment.

‘I mean as a homicide investigator. You encounter death, or at least have to deal with it as part of your day-to-day routine. What did you think I was referring to?’

‘Nothing. I see what you mean and yes, death holds no romance for me.’

‘And as for a group of young people, riven by sexual rivalries and jealousies, to be held together by the Gothic is far from new. As everyone knows, Polidori wrote
The Vampyre
in the same place, the Villa Diodati, and at the same time as Mary Shelley started
Frankenstein
. Both at the instigation of Byron. And everyone at the Villa Diodati was trying to get into everyone else’s bed. And if there’s one thing that the Gothic’s about as much as death, it’s sex. It seethes with sex.’