need checking out.’
Fabel stopped and scanned the path they had just come. ‘Mountain bikers?’
Maria shook her head. ‘Motorbike. Could be totally unconnected, as could the footprints.’
They walked on. Fabel took in the trees on either side. The spaces between them darkened as they receded, like green caves into which the bright day could not reach. He thought back to the interview on the radio. The darkness of the forest in the light of the day: the metaphor for the danger that lies in the everyday. The path took a turn and suddenly opened up into a small clearing. There were about a dozen police and forensics moving around the space. The focus of their activities was a wooden picnicking table with attached benches, set to the right of the main path. Two bodies, a man and a woman, sat on the ground, propped up against the end of the table. They both stared out at Fabel and Maria with death’s disinterested glare. They sat side by side, each with an arm extended, as if reaching out to the other; their limp hands touching but not holding. Between them lay a handkerchief, carefully unfolded and laid flat. The cause of death was immediately apparent: both throats had been slashed deep and wide. The man was in his late thirties withdark hair cropped close to disguise the thinning on the top of his scalp; his mouth gaped, black-red with the blood that had frothed up from the ravaged throat in the final seconds of life.
Fabel stepped closer. He looked at the male victim’s clothing. It was one of the most unsettling things at a death scene for Fabel: how death set its own agenda, how it refused to recognise the trivial subtleties that we build into our lives. The man’s pale grey suit and tan leather shoes were clearly expensive: something to be noticed in life as indicators of status, of taste, of his place in the world. Here, the suit was a crumpled, mud- and blood-smeared rag. The shirt lay blood-dyed under the dark gash across the throat. One of the shoes had come off and lay discarded half a metre from the foot that pointed towards it, as if seeking to reclaim it. The grey silk sock had unfurled halfway and the mottled, pale flesh of the man’s heel was exposed
Fabel turned his attention to the woman. Compared to the man, she had considerably less blood on her clothes. Death had come more quickly and more easily to her. A swathe of blood was splashed diagonally across the thighs of her jeans. She was in her early twenties and had long blonde hair, some of which had been blown by the breeze into the slash across her throat and had become matted in the blood. Fabel noted that, although the colours and cut had been carefully and tastefully chosen, her clothes were of a totally different price bracket from those of the man. She wore a pale green T-shirt and her jeans were new, but a cheaper alternative to the designer jeans whose style they copied. This was not a couple. Or at least, not an established couple. Fabel leanedforward and examined the handkerchief; there were small pieces of bread crumbled on to it. He stood up.
‘No sign of the blade used?’ he asked Maria.
‘No … and no blood spatter on the ground, the table or anything around here. Hi, Jan …’ Holger Brauner, the Präsidium’s forensic team leader, joined them.
Fabel smiled. As soon as he had seen the sweeping stain of blood on the woman’s jeans he had realised that this was not the primary locus: the killing had been done elsewhere.
‘You got here quickly …’ he said to Brauner.
‘We got a call from a local Kommissar, who decided not to leave it to the Lagedienst to inform me. I guess the same one who called you. A Kommissar …’ Brauner struggled for the name.
‘Hermann,’ Maria completed the sentence for him. ‘That’s him over there.’ She indicated a tall, uniformed man in his early thirties. He was standing with a group of SchuPos, but when he noticed that he had become the focus of interest he made an apologetic
Fabel stopped and scanned the path they had just come. ‘Mountain bikers?’
Maria shook her head. ‘Motorbike. Could be totally unconnected, as could the footprints.’
They walked on. Fabel took in the trees on either side. The spaces between them darkened as they receded, like green caves into which the bright day could not reach. He thought back to the interview on the radio. The darkness of the forest in the light of the day: the metaphor for the danger that lies in the everyday. The path took a turn and suddenly opened up into a small clearing. There were about a dozen police and forensics moving around the space. The focus of their activities was a wooden picnicking table with attached benches, set to the right of the main path. Two bodies, a man and a woman, sat on the ground, propped up against the end of the table. They both stared out at Fabel and Maria with death’s disinterested glare. They sat side by side, each with an arm extended, as if reaching out to the other; their limp hands touching but not holding. Between them lay a handkerchief, carefully unfolded and laid flat. The cause of death was immediately apparent: both throats had been slashed deep and wide. The man was in his late thirties withdark hair cropped close to disguise the thinning on the top of his scalp; his mouth gaped, black-red with the blood that had frothed up from the ravaged throat in the final seconds of life.
Fabel stepped closer. He looked at the male victim’s clothing. It was one of the most unsettling things at a death scene for Fabel: how death set its own agenda, how it refused to recognise the trivial subtleties that we build into our lives. The man’s pale grey suit and tan leather shoes were clearly expensive: something to be noticed in life as indicators of status, of taste, of his place in the world. Here, the suit was a crumpled, mud- and blood-smeared rag. The shirt lay blood-dyed under the dark gash across the throat. One of the shoes had come off and lay discarded half a metre from the foot that pointed towards it, as if seeking to reclaim it. The grey silk sock had unfurled halfway and the mottled, pale flesh of the man’s heel was exposed
Fabel turned his attention to the woman. Compared to the man, she had considerably less blood on her clothes. Death had come more quickly and more easily to her. A swathe of blood was splashed diagonally across the thighs of her jeans. She was in her early twenties and had long blonde hair, some of which had been blown by the breeze into the slash across her throat and had become matted in the blood. Fabel noted that, although the colours and cut had been carefully and tastefully chosen, her clothes were of a totally different price bracket from those of the man. She wore a pale green T-shirt and her jeans were new, but a cheaper alternative to the designer jeans whose style they copied. This was not a couple. Or at least, not an established couple. Fabel leanedforward and examined the handkerchief; there were small pieces of bread crumbled on to it. He stood up.
‘No sign of the blade used?’ he asked Maria.
‘No … and no blood spatter on the ground, the table or anything around here. Hi, Jan …’ Holger Brauner, the Präsidium’s forensic team leader, joined them.
Fabel smiled. As soon as he had seen the sweeping stain of blood on the woman’s jeans he had realised that this was not the primary locus: the killing had been done elsewhere.
‘You got here quickly …’ he said to Brauner.
‘We got a call from a local Kommissar, who decided not to leave it to the Lagedienst to inform me. I guess the same one who called you. A Kommissar …’ Brauner struggled for the name.
‘Hermann,’ Maria completed the sentence for him. ‘That’s him over there.’ She indicated a tall, uniformed man in his early thirties. He was standing with a group of SchuPos, but when he noticed that he had become the focus of interest he made an apologetic
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