the unprotected face of his mother.
‘There you are,
Mutti
. Now, that’s better, isn’t it?’ He stepped back to the bed and drew the chair in close before sitting down. He leaned forward in his habitual posture of devotion and solicitousness. In a gesture that seemed gentle and considerate, but which hid a malevolent intent, he laid his hand on her forehead, easing it ever so slightly back towards the hairline and pulling the heavy, unresponsive eyelids up and open to let the full glare of the sun burn into the old woman’s pallid eyes.
‘I went out to play again last night,
Mutti
. Two this time. I cut their throats. I did him first. Then she begged for her life. She begged and she begged. It was
so
funny,
Mutti
. She just kept on saying “Oh no, oh no …” Then I stuck her with the knife. In the throat too. I sliced it wide open and she shut up.’ He gave a small laugh. He let his hand slide off the old woman’s brow and his fingers traced the fragileangles of her cheek and across her thin, wrinkled neck. He tilted his head to one side, a wistful expression on his face. Then he removed his hand suddenly and sat back in his chair.
‘Do you remember,
Mutti
, when you used to punish me? When I was a boy? Do you remember how you would make me, as my punishment, recite those stories over and over and over? And if I got even one word wrong, you would beat me with that walking stick you had? The one you brought back from the walking holiday we had in Bavaria? Remember how you got a fright one time, when you beat me so badly that I passed out? You taught me that I was a sinner. A worthless sinner, you used to call me – do you remember?’ He paused, as if half expecting the answer she was incapable of giving, then continued, ‘And always you’d make me recite those stories. I would spend so much of my time memorising them. I used to read them over and over again, reading until my eyes began to jumble up the letters and the words, trying to make sure I didn’t forget or misplace a single word. But I always did, didn’t I? I always gave you an excuse to beat me.’ He sighed, looked out at the bright day beyond the window and then back to the old woman. ‘Soon, very soon, it will be time for you to come home with me, mother.’
He stood up, leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. ‘And I still have the walking stick …’
11.
9.15 a.m., Sunday, 21 March: Naturpark Harburger Berge, south of Hamburg
Maria had been at the scene for some time before Fabel arrived. It was more of a clearing than a car park, and Fabel suspected that it served two purposes: by day, a starting point for walkers; by night, a discreet location for illicit liaisons. He parked his BMW next to one of the green-and-white marked SchuPo cars and got out. It was a bright, breezy spring morning and the dense woods that framed the car park seemed to breathe with the breeze and the chatter of birdsong.
‘“In the midst of life” …’ he said in English to Maria as she approached him, indicating the trees and the sky with a sweep of his hand. She looked confused.
‘“In the midst of life, we are in death” …’ he repeated, translating into German. Maria shrugged. ‘Where are they?’ Fabel asked.
‘Over there …’ Maria indicated a small gap in the fringe of trees. ‘It’s a Wanderweg – a path for walkers. It goes right through the woods, but there is a small clearing with a picnic table about three hundred metres along. This is as far as you can take a car.’ Fabel noticed that half of the parking area,the half next to the entrance of the Wanderweg path, had been cordoned off.
‘Shall we?’ Fabel indicated that Maria should lead the way. As they made their way up the uneven, slightly muddy path, Fabel noticed that the Spurensicherung forensic team had lain down protective covers at irregular intervals. Fabel looked questioningly at Maria.
‘Tyre marks,’ she said. ‘And a couple of footprints that
‘There you are,
Mutti
. Now, that’s better, isn’t it?’ He stepped back to the bed and drew the chair in close before sitting down. He leaned forward in his habitual posture of devotion and solicitousness. In a gesture that seemed gentle and considerate, but which hid a malevolent intent, he laid his hand on her forehead, easing it ever so slightly back towards the hairline and pulling the heavy, unresponsive eyelids up and open to let the full glare of the sun burn into the old woman’s pallid eyes.
‘I went out to play again last night,
Mutti
. Two this time. I cut their throats. I did him first. Then she begged for her life. She begged and she begged. It was
so
funny,
Mutti
. She just kept on saying “Oh no, oh no …” Then I stuck her with the knife. In the throat too. I sliced it wide open and she shut up.’ He gave a small laugh. He let his hand slide off the old woman’s brow and his fingers traced the fragileangles of her cheek and across her thin, wrinkled neck. He tilted his head to one side, a wistful expression on his face. Then he removed his hand suddenly and sat back in his chair.
‘Do you remember,
Mutti
, when you used to punish me? When I was a boy? Do you remember how you would make me, as my punishment, recite those stories over and over and over? And if I got even one word wrong, you would beat me with that walking stick you had? The one you brought back from the walking holiday we had in Bavaria? Remember how you got a fright one time, when you beat me so badly that I passed out? You taught me that I was a sinner. A worthless sinner, you used to call me – do you remember?’ He paused, as if half expecting the answer she was incapable of giving, then continued, ‘And always you’d make me recite those stories. I would spend so much of my time memorising them. I used to read them over and over again, reading until my eyes began to jumble up the letters and the words, trying to make sure I didn’t forget or misplace a single word. But I always did, didn’t I? I always gave you an excuse to beat me.’ He sighed, looked out at the bright day beyond the window and then back to the old woman. ‘Soon, very soon, it will be time for you to come home with me, mother.’
He stood up, leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. ‘And I still have the walking stick …’
11.
9.15 a.m., Sunday, 21 March: Naturpark Harburger Berge, south of Hamburg
Maria had been at the scene for some time before Fabel arrived. It was more of a clearing than a car park, and Fabel suspected that it served two purposes: by day, a starting point for walkers; by night, a discreet location for illicit liaisons. He parked his BMW next to one of the green-and-white marked SchuPo cars and got out. It was a bright, breezy spring morning and the dense woods that framed the car park seemed to breathe with the breeze and the chatter of birdsong.
‘“In the midst of life” …’ he said in English to Maria as she approached him, indicating the trees and the sky with a sweep of his hand. She looked confused.
‘“In the midst of life, we are in death” …’ he repeated, translating into German. Maria shrugged. ‘Where are they?’ Fabel asked.
‘Over there …’ Maria indicated a small gap in the fringe of trees. ‘It’s a Wanderweg – a path for walkers. It goes right through the woods, but there is a small clearing with a picnic table about three hundred metres along. This is as far as you can take a car.’ Fabel noticed that half of the parking area,the half next to the entrance of the Wanderweg path, had been cordoned off.
‘Shall we?’ Fabel indicated that Maria should lead the way. As they made their way up the uneven, slightly muddy path, Fabel noticed that the Spurensicherung forensic team had lain down protective covers at irregular intervals. Fabel looked questioningly at Maria.
‘Tyre marks,’ she said. ‘And a couple of footprints that
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