Secret police are secret police, whatever initials you give them.
Volker smiled and reached across the table. ‘I’m pleased to meet you Herr Fabel. I read a great deal about your work on the Markus Stümbke case last year …’
The two men shook hands.
‘And this is Innensenator Ganz,’ continued Van Heiden.
Ganz extended his hand; the scrubbed face did not break into a smile. ‘This is a terrible business, Herr Kriminalkommissar,’ said Ganz, demoting Fabel by several ranks. ‘I hope that you are employing all means at your disposal to put a stop to this.’
‘Erster Kriminalhauptkommissar,’ corrected Fabel, ‘and it goes totally without saying, Senator, that we are doing all we can to catch this killer.’
‘I’m sure you’re aware that the press is whipping up public concern almost to a state of frenzy …’ It was the figure by the window who spoke, turning at last to face the others. A tall, elegant, lean, broad-shouldered man in his early fifties, with intense blue eyes and a long, thin, intelligent face carved with vertical lines. His hair was as much grey as blond and expensively cut. Fabel, himself an admirer of fine English tailoring, reckoned that the expensive royal-blue shirt was from Jermyn Street, London. The suit was definitely Italian. The overall effect was more of taste and style than ostentation. Fabel had never met the man before, but recognised him instantly. After all, he had voted for him.
‘Yes, Herr Erste Bürgermeister, it has not escaped my notice.’ Fabel spun the leather chair he was sitting on around to face Hamburg’s first mayor and leader of the Hamburg state government, Dr Hans Schreiber.
Schreiber smiled. ‘You’re the one they call der englische Kommissar , aren’t you?’
‘Incorrectly, yes.’
‘You’re not English?’
‘No. I can honestly say I haven’t a drop of English blood in me. My mother is a Scot, my father was a Frisian. We lived in England for a while when I was a kid. Part of my education was there. Why do you ask?’
‘Just curious. I’m an Anglophile myself. After all, they say Hamburg is “the most British city outside the United Kingdom” … Anyway, I find it interesting – that they call you the English Kommissar, I mean. It marks you out as … well, different. Do you see yourself as different, Herr Fabel?’
Fabel shrugged. He didn’t see the point in this conversation and its personal tone was beginning to annoy him. The truth was he did feel different. All his life he had been aware of another, non-German aspect to his make-up. He resented it and treasured it at the same time.
Schreiber obviously sensed Fabel’s growing unease. ‘I’m sorry, Herr Fabel, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that I have read your service file and it’s clear that you are an exceptional officer. I believe you are different, that you have an edge, an added perspective that others don’t. It’s why I believe you are the man who will stop this monster.’
‘I have no choice,’ said Fabel, and went on to explain his ‘selection’ by the so-called Son of Sven. As Fabel spoke, Schreiber nodded and frowned as if absorbing and weighing up every morsel of information, but Fabel noticed that the Bürgermeister’s gaze ranged around the room. The motion gave the hooded, intense eyes an almost predatory look. It was as if his mind were in several places at the same time.
‘What I want to know, Herr Hauptkommissar, is whether you actually have a strategy?’ asked Innensenator Ganz. ‘I hope we are not allowing this maniac to set the agenda. Proactive policing is what is called for here …’
Fabel was about to retort when Schreiber cut across him. ‘I have every confidence in Herr Fabel, Hugo. And I don’t think it’s helpful for us as politicians to dictate how the police do their job.’
Ganz’s pink cheeks reddened further. It was clear who was in charge here. The odd thing was that, although Schreiber had said all the right
Volker smiled and reached across the table. ‘I’m pleased to meet you Herr Fabel. I read a great deal about your work on the Markus Stümbke case last year …’
The two men shook hands.
‘And this is Innensenator Ganz,’ continued Van Heiden.
Ganz extended his hand; the scrubbed face did not break into a smile. ‘This is a terrible business, Herr Kriminalkommissar,’ said Ganz, demoting Fabel by several ranks. ‘I hope that you are employing all means at your disposal to put a stop to this.’
‘Erster Kriminalhauptkommissar,’ corrected Fabel, ‘and it goes totally without saying, Senator, that we are doing all we can to catch this killer.’
‘I’m sure you’re aware that the press is whipping up public concern almost to a state of frenzy …’ It was the figure by the window who spoke, turning at last to face the others. A tall, elegant, lean, broad-shouldered man in his early fifties, with intense blue eyes and a long, thin, intelligent face carved with vertical lines. His hair was as much grey as blond and expensively cut. Fabel, himself an admirer of fine English tailoring, reckoned that the expensive royal-blue shirt was from Jermyn Street, London. The suit was definitely Italian. The overall effect was more of taste and style than ostentation. Fabel had never met the man before, but recognised him instantly. After all, he had voted for him.
‘Yes, Herr Erste Bürgermeister, it has not escaped my notice.’ Fabel spun the leather chair he was sitting on around to face Hamburg’s first mayor and leader of the Hamburg state government, Dr Hans Schreiber.
Schreiber smiled. ‘You’re the one they call der englische Kommissar , aren’t you?’
‘Incorrectly, yes.’
‘You’re not English?’
‘No. I can honestly say I haven’t a drop of English blood in me. My mother is a Scot, my father was a Frisian. We lived in England for a while when I was a kid. Part of my education was there. Why do you ask?’
‘Just curious. I’m an Anglophile myself. After all, they say Hamburg is “the most British city outside the United Kingdom” … Anyway, I find it interesting – that they call you the English Kommissar, I mean. It marks you out as … well, different. Do you see yourself as different, Herr Fabel?’
Fabel shrugged. He didn’t see the point in this conversation and its personal tone was beginning to annoy him. The truth was he did feel different. All his life he had been aware of another, non-German aspect to his make-up. He resented it and treasured it at the same time.
Schreiber obviously sensed Fabel’s growing unease. ‘I’m sorry, Herr Fabel, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that I have read your service file and it’s clear that you are an exceptional officer. I believe you are different, that you have an edge, an added perspective that others don’t. It’s why I believe you are the man who will stop this monster.’
‘I have no choice,’ said Fabel, and went on to explain his ‘selection’ by the so-called Son of Sven. As Fabel spoke, Schreiber nodded and frowned as if absorbing and weighing up every morsel of information, but Fabel noticed that the Bürgermeister’s gaze ranged around the room. The motion gave the hooded, intense eyes an almost predatory look. It was as if his mind were in several places at the same time.
‘What I want to know, Herr Hauptkommissar, is whether you actually have a strategy?’ asked Innensenator Ganz. ‘I hope we are not allowing this maniac to set the agenda. Proactive policing is what is called for here …’
Fabel was about to retort when Schreiber cut across him. ‘I have every confidence in Herr Fabel, Hugo. And I don’t think it’s helpful for us as politicians to dictate how the police do their job.’
Ganz’s pink cheeks reddened further. It was clear who was in charge here. The odd thing was that, although Schreiber had said all the right
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