question.
‘Blüm … that’s Angelika Blüm.’
Wednesday 4 June, 6.45 p.m. B73, Hamburg–Cuxhaven.
Fear ran through him like an electric current. A delicious fear that tingled his scalp and tightened his chest. This was his selected duty and he never resented being the one who had to take all the risks.
He took his hands from the steering wheel, first one, then the other, and wiped the sweat from his palms and concentrated on the road. All it would take would be a routine police road check, or a minor accident, or a flat tyre and a helpful autobahn patrol. Then it would be all over. He angled the rear-view mirror so that he could see her. She was slumped in the back seat. Her sonorous breathing was deep but irregular, with a scratchy stridor. Fuck. Maybe he had used too much. ‘Just stay alive,’ he muttered, knowing she was far beyond hearing anything. ‘Just stay alive for a couple of hours more, you stupid bitch.’
Wednesday 4 June, 7.40 p.m. Aussenalster, Hamburg.
The 7.30 Rundfahrt ferry gleamed golden in the evening sun that had at last triumphed against the rain. Fabel stood on deck, leaning with his forearms resting on the rail. The ferry was not particularly busy and the only passengers on deck were an elderly couple, sitting together and in silence on one of the benches. They simply stared out over the Aussenalster, not speaking, not touching, not looking at each other. To Fabel it seemed that all they had left to share was solitude, and he reflected for a moment on how, since his divorce, his solitude had been total. Indivisible and unshared. There had been more than a few women, yet with each new liaison came a deep ache that was something like guilt, and the relationships had never lasted. Fabel had sought something solid in each new involvement, something on which to anchor some sense of meaning, but he had never found it. He had grown up among the tight-knit, Lutheran communities of Ost-Friesland where people married for life. For better and, quite often, for worse. He had never considered that he would be anything other than a full-time, full-term husband and father. It was a constant in his life, an anchor point, like being a policeman. Then Renate, his wife, had removed the landmark of his marriage from his life and Fabel had been lost for a long, long time. And now, five years after his divorce, each time he shared the bed of another woman felt like a small adultery; an infidelity to a marriage that had died long ago.
The ferry glided on. Fabel had boarded at the Fährdamm quay in the Alsterpark, and now they were moving out from the sweep of green and gold that seemed to glow in the evening sun. Fabel had just looked at his watch – 7.40 p.m. – when he became aware of a figure leaning on the rail next to him. He turned to face a tall Turk, about thirty-five, with a longish handsome face and a shock of black hair. The Turk grinned broadly and the smile lines that were already around his eyes deepened further.
‘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
‘Blüm … that’s Angelika Blüm.’
Wednesday 4 June, 6.45 p.m. B73, Hamburg–Cuxhaven.
Fear ran through him like an electric current. A delicious fear that tingled his scalp and tightened his chest. This was his selected duty and he never resented being the one who had to take all the risks.
He took his hands from the steering wheel, first one, then the other, and wiped the sweat from his palms and concentrated on the road. All it would take would be a routine police road check, or a minor accident, or a flat tyre and a helpful autobahn patrol. Then it would be all over. He angled the rear-view mirror so that he could see her. She was slumped in the back seat. Her sonorous breathing was deep but irregular, with a scratchy stridor. Fuck. Maybe he had used too much. ‘Just stay alive,’ he muttered, knowing she was far beyond hearing anything. ‘Just stay alive for a couple of hours more, you stupid bitch.’
Wednesday 4 June, 7.40 p.m. Aussenalster, Hamburg.
The 7.30 Rundfahrt ferry gleamed golden in the evening sun that had at last triumphed against the rain. Fabel stood on deck, leaning with his forearms resting on the rail. The ferry was not particularly busy and the only passengers on deck were an elderly couple, sitting together and in silence on one of the benches. They simply stared out over the Aussenalster, not speaking, not touching, not looking at each other. To Fabel it seemed that all they had left to share was solitude, and he reflected for a moment on how, since his divorce, his solitude had been total. Indivisible and unshared. There had been more than a few women, yet with each new liaison came a deep ache that was something like guilt, and the relationships had never lasted. Fabel had sought something solid in each new involvement, something on which to anchor some sense of meaning, but he had never found it. He had grown up among the tight-knit, Lutheran communities of Ost-Friesland where people married for life. For better and, quite often, for worse. He had never considered that he would be anything other than a full-time, full-term husband and father. It was a constant in his life, an anchor point, like being a policeman. Then Renate, his wife, had removed the landmark of his marriage from his life and Fabel had been lost for a long, long time. And now, five years after his divorce, each time he shared the bed of another woman felt like a small adultery; an infidelity to a marriage that had died long ago.
The ferry glided on. Fabel had boarded at the Fährdamm quay in the Alsterpark, and now they were moving out from the sweep of green and gold that seemed to glow in the evening sun. Fabel had just looked at his watch – 7.40 p.m. – when he became aware of a figure leaning on the rail next to him. He turned to face a tall Turk, about thirty-five, with a longish handsome face and a shock of black hair. The Turk grinned broadly and the smile lines that were already around his eyes deepened further.
‘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
Similar Books
